Archived at: www.seeingred.net
Pairing: W/S (a little W/A implied)
Rating: Pg-13ish
Disclaimer: I borrow, bending and twisting plot to my will.
Summary: Some time after Spike get's the chip, Willow gets turned
Thank you to the amazing, endearing and utterly awesome Heather for the beta!
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It was a mistake. They never should have been out. It's not their job, it's not their destiny, and they're hardly qualified to do the work that they're tasked with. It was a mistake, and Xander wants to turn back time, to make a different decision, to go with his gut and insist that they stay in. He wants to make everything alright again, and save the life that bleeds away before him.
But, of course, things are never that easy.
All day, something has been nagging at him, hovering, like an angel, or a monster, with a warning, if only he could read it, but he's been blind, unable to see the plans that fate holds for them. He can feel it in the air, even now, dark and foreboding and born of ill intent. He wants to change things, to make things right, but as he continues to move through the shadows, he finds no hope of turning the tide of events.
And now, Willow is going to die.
Looking down at the girl…no, the woman, in his arms, Xander's heart leaps into his throat and he stumbles, nearly dropping his precious burden as he rushes through the cemetery.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, staring at the blood that seeps from the wound in her neck. He's not sure what he's apologizing for, nearly dropping her, or allowing her to be killed, and he briefly contemplates the fact that he should be covering her throat, putting pressure on it, or something, but then he knows that in the end, that will do no good. It's too late. He's seen the aftermath of a vampire attack often enough to know when it's a hopeless case.
And they seem to be fresh out of hope, today.
He sees the crypt and pushes forward, shifting her weight in his arms and banging on the stone door. He never would have thought he'd hold such a desire to see Spike, but when the vampire throws open the door and growls, glaring with his usual mixture of seething hatred and disinterest, Xander feels tears spring into his eyes. He's not sure what makes him want to cry more, relief at having found Spike before Willow takes her last breath, or sorrow for what he's about to ask.
And he supposes that, in the end, it doesn't really matter; they're all damned, either way.
Spike contemplates the fact that he should be out, maiming and killing and drinking the blood of the innocent, like every good vampire does at this hour, but instead he's here, watching a human that he hates weep like a child, while another bleeds to death on his floor.
And he can't help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the thought that it will take weeks to get the scent of her blood out of the place.
"What is this?" he asks, not bothering to feign anything even remotely close to concern. He's already considered saving the girl, assuming that the watcher would throw him a few bucks in exchange for her life, but her pulse and her heartbeat are both good indicators that saving her isn't an option.
Plus, there's the gaping hole in her throat.
The boy mutters something about patrolling for the slayer, a vampire attack, and a misplaced stake, and Spike resists the urge to remind him that little children who play in the woods shouldn't cry when bit by the wolf.
He doubts the boy would even hear the words.
"Turn her!" Xander shouts, his voice high pitched and on the verge of hysterics.
Spike turns away and pulls out a cigarette, growling as it's ripped from his hand and thrown across the crypt. Spinning around, he comes nose to nose with the boy, and for a brief, flickering moment, he feels a small amount of respect at seeing such a weak human make such a bold move.
Then he remembers the chip, and any measure of respect is quickly replaced by something much more akin to rage.
"You can't just stand here and watch her die!" Xander yells, his eyes red and wild and full of a sorrow that is both delightful and bothersome to the vampire before him.
"Actually, I can," Spike responds, his words slow and deliberate. "Not my fault you couldn't protect her.
The words, of course, are meant to cause maximum pain, like a bite to the jugular, a kill that takes only seconds, but Spike is surprised as they hit their mark and ignite a fire, the boy lashing out and sending the vampire sprawling. Spike's head hits the ground with a sickening thud that would be music to his ears if it were anyone's head but his own, and when he shakes away the stars, he sees Xander hovering over him, a stake poised over his heart.
"Turn her," Xander demands, and Spike tilts his head, listening to the girl's heartbeat. Only a few minutes left.
He considers telling the boy that his time is almost up, but thinks better of it as he eyes the stake held to his chest.
"You don't know what you're asking for," Spike tells him, a bit surprised at the sympathy lacing his tone. "Besides," he adds, "I couldn't if I wanted to, thanks to the chip in my head."
Xander moves to the girl on the sarcophagus and pulls blood-soaked strands of hair away from her neck.
"She's already bleeding," he points out, turning a slight shade of green.
Spike contemplates that for a moment. It would be nice to drink human blood, direct from the source, still warm and… But there would be consequences. He would have to turn the girl, or risk absolute staking by the slayer and her friends.
He would have to turn her, making her his.
And wouldn't that just piss the slayer off to no end?
Xander can tell the second that Spike changes his mind, the second that he decides to say yes. He doesn't know if it's the thought of a free meal, or something more, and he doesn't much care at the moment. Spike is going to save Willow, and that's all that matters.
He watches the vampire approach her, slow and careful, staring at the seeping hole in her throat like a man in the desert that happens upon a fresh spring, and Xander suddenly feels sick. Grabbing the cell phone from his pocket, he rushes out of the crypt and hits number four on his speed dial, waiting for someone to pick up.
It's better if he doesn't see it, he tells himself. It's better to not have that visual haunting him for the rest of his life. After all, he's already got enough memories to fill a lifetime of nightmares.
She tastes so good that he nearly forgets to stop, and as Spike tears his wrist open and forces the blood down her throat, he's surprised at how much he suddenly wants this. Maybe it's the chip, and the fact that, by all rights, he shouldn't be able to do this, or maybe it's the slayer, and the knowledge of how much this is going to hurt her.
Or maybe it's the empty hole in his heart, courtesy of Drusilla and her cruel abandonment.
Doesn't really matter; the blood slides down Willow's throat, she gasps, chokes, takes her last breath and is gone.
Some of the most monumental moments slip by with the most unassuming silence.
The door opens and the boy walks back in as Spike wipes the blood away from his chin, licking his fingers clean and savoring the taste. He should thank Xander, really. He gave him something that he didn't even know he wanted, and now that it's here, now that it's his, now that she is his, he can't quite remember what it felt like to not want her. It's as if he's unlocked some power that she holds, and a void has been filled.
Suddenly, and quite inexplicably, he has someone, a childe, to want him and need him and follow him to the ends of the Earth, and that's more than a damaged vampire with a chip in his head and a little too much humanity could ever really hope for. He'll make her ache for him, just as he aches for his sire. He'll make her cry for him, scream for him, and beg for him to give her anything he can spare, and it will be beautiful, in the most horrifying way.
Xander moves to pick her up and Spike is immediately on top of him, shoving him away with a snarl.
"Don't touch her," he growls, slightly surprised at how possessive he feels for a girl that two hours ago he couldn't be bothered to remember the name of, but then, he hasn't much in the world, and this is much more than he had when he woke up this evening.
"I have to take her," Xander mumbles, his eyes unfocused, his hands shaking, a cell phone still clutched in his grasp.
"You'll do no such thing," Spike says, his tone low and lethal and all things threatening. "She's mine now."
The boy shakes his head, looking small and lost and very much like vulnerable prey. "I have to take her to Giles. He'll be able to fix it. He'll make it right."
"What did you do?"
"I…I called Giles. He's using the curse. He's giving her a soul."
"Like hell he is! No childe of mine will be cursed with a soul!"
He wants to say more. He wants to tell this stupid, insignificant, speck of a man that they won't desecrate his childe with something so disgusting, that they won't take away the one thing that the has, the one thing he's just found. He wants to tell him that they won't fill her with something as vile as a soul, but not a single word makes it past his lips, as a bright flash of light floods the room. He can't tell if it's emanating from the girl's chest, or seeking to enter, but it doesn't really matter. Spike knows what it is; he knows what it means.
They've just managed to steal the only thing in the world that was his.
"Take her away," he whispers, staring at the body.
"Giles thinks that you should-"
"Take her! Get her out of my sight. She's your problem now."
And once again, hope is lost.
It's been nearly three months and nothing has changed. Nothing has gotten easier, or better, or even slightly more tolerable. Nothing hurts any less, and every time she wakes up, it's like the very first time; she struggles to breathe, gasping for breath that isn't there, as the demon inside rages and screams and demands to be freed.
Every night is a repeat performance of the first time she woke after death.
Xander feels guilty, Giles is angry and Buffy is confused, but Willow can't really pretend to care very much, for their pain and anguish is nothing compared to her own, and hers is not anything that any one of them could ever understand. She hates them all, though of course she can't say it, choking on the words and offering dead smiles and hollow laughter and everything that they think Willow is supposed to be.
She goes out at night, against their wishes, under the guise of patrolling, though she suspects that she is fooling few, and Giles least of all. Surely he knows what she's doing, who she's searching for, and though he hasn't warned her off just yet, she figures that it's just a matter of time before the fatherly lectures begin about the dangers of demons and monsters and things that go bump in the night.
Willow sometimes wonders if he remembers that she is now one of those.
Standing by the window, she pulls back a heavy curtain, watching a thin ray of light cascade down to the floor, before slowly passing her hand through the warm sun beam, holding it there and listening to the skin as it slowly sizzles.
Sometimes, she can almost pretend that the sun does not burn. Sometimes she can almost pretend that God does not reject her. Sometimes, if she tries really hard, she can almost pretend that she is not a monster, an evil thing.
Sometimes.
Almost.
Another hand, strong and unyielding, grips her shoulder and yanks her back, the curtain falling from her grasp as the room is plunged back into darkness. Spun around, she is pushed down to sit on the bed, the face of her great-grand-sire looming before her.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She hears him growl and supposes that she should be scared, or at the very least concerned, but Willow can't quite muster up the ability to feel much of anything these days, and as she tries to drudge up some level of outrage, she is able only to manage slight annoyance instead.
"Willow, what happened to you?"
Reaching out, he runs his fingers over the fading bruise by her right eye, clenching his jaw as she slaps his hand away and turns her face.
"What have you been doing?" he asks, though they're both fairly sure that he knows the answer.
"I need to find him," she says, not bothering with more.
"He doesn't want you, Willow. Why would you want someone that doesn't want you?"
And that really is the question, isn't it? Why does she want so badly to find Spike, her sire, her flesh and…well, her blood, at the very least? It's a question that has plagued her from the moment she first woke, and she is no closer to an answer today than she was three months earlier.
"I need him," she says.
"You don't," he insists, grabbing her arms and holding her tight as she struggles to break free. There are bruises on her face, her arms, and, he suspects, many places that he cannot see. "What have you done to yourself?"
"I'm a fledgling, with a soul, whose sire has abandoned her!" she shouts. "Kinda makes for an easy target."
"Then why do you go out there?"
"Because, I need him. You don't understand."
And he doesn't, he can't, not really. He had his sire, Darla, for as long as he needed, to teach him and protect him until he, himself, was the thing that the rest of the world needed protection from. He can't understand, and the knowledge of that is infuriating.
He is beside her in a second, leaning a little too far into her personal space, and she scents the blood, old and powerful and enticingly familiar, before she sees the bite on his wrist.
"Feed," he growls, holding his arm to her mouth.
Willow licks her lips, staring at the oozing red liquid, and can't help but wonder what it would be like to taste that blood, rich and powerful and a mild variation of her own. It's not the same, and it never will be. She knows this, but tries to convince herself that she doesn't care. She understands what is being offered, and though it might be a poor substitute to that which she seeks, she'll take it, because it's better than struggling and fighting and losing every night.
After all, Spike doesn't want her, and why should she desire he who turns her away, when a willing substitute sits before her, his arm torn and bleeding and hers for the taking?
Why does she keep hoping for something more than she can reach?
Angel knows what she wants, what she desires, what she truly needs, because a part of him hopes for the same, and then spends hours brooding over the guilt from that hope.
They think that the soul is a gift, conveniently forgetting that it is called a curse for a reason, and Angel knows how she suffers with it, a conscious that has no choice but to work, feeling anguish and guilt and horror at the thoughts that run through her mind every hour of every night.
She's not his. She never has been, and though Angel knows this, he tries to pretend that this is good and right and exactly where they both belong. He tries to tell himself that he deserves the little slice of happiness that comes every time she laughs, or babbles, or graces him with a rare but genuine smile. Angel tries to tell himself that this is real and forever, but deep down he knows that it is only an illusion, a temporary gift, heartache disguised by red hair and green eyes and the cutest little fangs.
They sleep in the same bed and she kisses him like she means it, and sometimes Angel thinks that she does, so he turns a blind eye and pretends that he doesn't know when she sneaks away, out into the night, searching for that ever elusive shadow of something she's never quite known.
He figures that she can feel it, him, watching her, the way that Angel can feel Spike skulking in the night, though perhaps she isn't able to place it, having never been told how the bond actually works. Angel suspects that she feels Spike watching her, waiting, and he has only to wonder how long it will be until her sire steps forth and claims her again. He wants to believe that he'll do something to stop it, to keep him away, but how can he deny her the very thing, that deep down, he wishes he could have.
Angel is a champion, tasked with atonement and pain, and though her companionship means more to him than anything in the world, he loves her enough to know that he'll never hold her back from finding that which he secretly craves.
Willow is happy enough, he supposes, but the fact is that Angel knows how deep her pain runs. The soul is a curse, dragging her down and keeping her hobbled, a constant internal struggle that he knows all too well. She smiles when it's appropriate, and pretends to love her friends, but Angel knows what lurks, deep down, mired in the anger and pain and hatred.
She is, after all, still a demon.
And though he's cherished every moment with her, knowing that they wouldn't last, Angel believes that she deserves something more, something better, a life unobstructed and unrestrained. He can hope and he can pray, but in the end, she belongs to someone else, and soon enough he will step up to free her.
And Angel, however jealous of both Spike and Willow, will never stand in their way.
Willow wants to be angry. She wants to be vengeful and hurtful and cruel. She wants to turn him away, as he once did to her, but she can't find the words and doesn't quite know what to do.
And so she stands, in the middle of Angel's lobby, staring at the creature that she has waited so long to see, so long to hurt, and suddenly Willow feels young and weak and more confused than ever.
"What are you going here?" she asks.
"You've been looking for me," Spike says.
"It's been a year," she reminds him, watching sorrow and anger and something that looks very much like guilt cross over his face.
"I want you," he says, breaking a long, painful silence that threatens to crush them both. "You're mine. You belong to me, with me, and I…I was stupid. You had the soul, and I didn't think that… But I don't care anymore. I don't care about the soul, or the slayer, or Angel or… I just want you."
He says the words as if they are the most obvious in the world, and she supposes that they just might be. After all, there is no finer truth between them.
Willow knows what this means. She knows what she's choosing, in being with Spike, and she understands how this changes everything in her world, but then, isn't that what she's been searching for all along? An escape from this life, this existence, this pain? If anyone can offer that, surely her sire can.
Turning, she glances back at Angel, who remains in the shadows. A slight nod is all that he offers before Willow slips her hand into Spike's and walks out into the night, and though he tries to be strong and righteous and good, he is scarcely able to muster the hope that somehow she will come back. He already knows that she is gone, and will not return, for she has finally found the one creature who can offer true happiness that no other can give, and though a part of him hopes that she somehow holds onto her soul, he doesn't bother with so much as a prayer to the Powers that Be.
After all, Angel thinks, they seem to be fresh out of hope, today.
The End