Title: "Poetic Justice"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Based on incorrect "FFL" spoilers. Rating/Classification: 'PG-13', B/S, angst, fluff, language.
Disclaimer: Grr aargh.
Summary: Pre-"Fool for Love" musings on Spike's true background...on why he's really obsessed with Slayers.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I think of her. Her neck snapping. Her blood spurting hot and rich into my mouth. I think of her clawing at my chest, her eyes wide with confusion and betrayal. I think of her voice...the gasps and the gurgles. The pleading question. "Sir?"

Most of the time I don't think of her at all. It's easier that way. Easier to dance on the graves. Easier to skip along the fallen headstones in my past. I'm a vampire. It's who I've been for over a hundred years. William the Bloody. Spike. A killer. Killer of two Slayers, in fact. Such a wonderful reputation. All the bullying and bravado. My legacy of terror.

Who I was before isn't supposed to matter anymore. Isn't supposed to plague me after I switch off "Dawson's Creek" and blow out the candles. But it does. She does. Her childish pleas turn to mockery. She laughs at me. She takes me by the hand and tugs me towards the cemetery, pushes a stake into my hands and exacts her vengeance. Kill your own kind, Sir. Kill them because you can and you want to.

And I do. I slay vamps with flair. With passion. With a vicious reminder of before. This is what happens when I'm left to my own devices. When I don't have Dru or Harm to take care of. Although, it occurs to me that there's a reason I've always taken care of my girls. It's in my blood. In the very core of my being. Something even a demon can't take away.

And that's why I want to take care of Buffy, too.

Because of her....because of the Slayer...I remember my Slayer.

Oh, it's a lark, isn't it? A laugh. A bitter irony.

A Watcher turned vampire...one who destroyed his own Slayer, and the Slayer after that, falls in love with the latest one. It's my penance. My punishment. My sins have finally come to bite me in the ass.

Have I reinvented myself over and over so I don't have to remember the original copy? Black leather and punk rock and cigarettes instead of kidskin gloves and bad poetry and red wine? Different vices, different creature?

Inside, I'm still the same sodding pillock who failed his sacred calling and became a plague upon humanity, aren't I? Inside, I have the same damnable knowledge and instincts. The same weaknesses. The same memories.

Drusilla was so bloody proud when she opened my veins. So proud to bag someone dedicated to the destruction of her kind. To take my fervor and my youth and twist it. And twist it she did. She and Angelus and Darla. My corruption was swift and thorough. So thorough that before the week was out, I was holding a broken, innocent, body in my arms, wearing her blood on my lips, and listening to her ask me "why."

I didn't answer. I didn't look back. I just looked forward into a wall of blood. Everything I'd upheld and honored in life died that night. And now it's returning. With this chip in my brain, I've got nothing to do except look back. And be haunted. Haunted by everything I've done. Everything I can't undo. Everything I can't have.

I'm pathetic. Don't I know it? I was a pathetic Watcher. And now I'm a pathetic vampire. Oh, I had a good century long heyday with my fangs...but it didn't last. Nothing good ever does.

Because Buffy will die, too, won't she?

She'll die and another will be called.

Perhaps the voices of the past will die with her.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll die with her.

I never expected to wake up one day and feel her tiny hand squeezing my heart. Never expected to wake up and feel something--anything--besides loathing for a Slayer again. But my ghostly victims have done their best work, haven't they? They've charmed her hair, her eyes, her voice, and her body...they've made me crave her mouth, her tongue, her words...they've made me weak to her in a way that the Initiative or a soul never could.

I watch her.

I watch her from the shadows of her house, of the crypts, of the bars and the clubs. I watch her more diligently and more obsessively than I ever watched my own. I memorize her every step, her every breath.

Because I never want to hold her broken body in my arms. I never want to wear her blood on my lips. I don't want her to ask me "why."

I want to make it up to her.

I want to protect her.

I want to love her.

I do love her.

And I'll die for her.

It's poetic justice.

--the end--

November 2000.


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