Title: "Rebirth"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "BtVS"
Rating/Classification: 'R' for language, implied B/S, angst.
Disclaimer: Grrr aaargh. Joss is a God.
Summary: A little speculative ficlet for "Two To Go"/"Grave" based on "Seeing Red" and "Villains."

Pulse. Rush. Red waves crashing against his eardrums. The first sound as his body comes awake and it is loud, deafening. His limbs are heavy, leaden, and he groans, rolling to one side, only to feel the mounting pressure at his groin. He's got to piss like a motherfucker.

"'S' funny..."

He hasn't had to drain the old lizard for nigh on two hundred years.

Pulse. Rush. Red waves crashing against his eardrums.

*Pulse*.

"FUCK."

He bolts upright, ignoring the scream of muscles slept on wrong and focusing, only, on the scream that tears from his own wet throat.

"Nooooo."

A mirror has been hung, strategically and mockingly, at eye level. A bright yellow Post-It note is fixed to it, and he has to laugh despite the misery, the howl of frustration, of how such things could come to be in a cave in the middle of west butt-fuck. "You are", says the note, in neat English script, "what you once were."

As his newly human stomach empties itself of it's meager contents and his hands fumble with his zipper as he retches and cusses, he glances at the pale face in the glass...greets someone he had hoped to never see again.

"Hello, William."

***

His cuts don't heal when he scratches jagged lines on his wrists with a rock.

His skin doesn't sizzle in the unyielding yellow sun.

He punches what must be the stupid spindly African tree they show on all the bloody nature specials and yelps, shaking his bruised fist and dancing around as the tears of pain prick his eyes.

It is no nightmare.

And no dream come true.

***

When he sleeps, he remembers hands tearing at clothes. Her body pinned beneath his as she struggles and pleads and tells him to "stop."

He wakes up tasting bile and guilt and rage.

And realizes he has.

He's stopped.

And started up again.

***

The sign says "Welcome to Sunnydale."

It always does.

For just an instant, he thinks of the bike plowing through it...of being thrown through the air, paltry mortal neck snapping upon impact with the ground.

For just an instant.

And then he zips around it and continues on.

Pulse. Rush. Red waves crashing against his eardrums.

As his body comes awake, he wants his first sight to be her face.

-
--end--

May 16, 2002.



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