I've done it now. I've totally fucked up. And all I can do is sit here amongst the ashes and the blood and wait for the sun to rise.
Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pull out my cigarettes and light one, noting each action, each sound and scent--the scratch of the match, the odor of sulphur, the faint sound of burning paper, then the rich tobacco smell turning to flame. The match burns to the tip of my fingers before I shake it out.
No need to rush things, after all.
As I draw on the cigarette, I glance across the courtyard and watch Drusilla. She's crouched next to the fountain, rocking her latest doll, Miss Stephanie or some other stupid sorority girl name.
At least she's not catatonic anymore.
As I lean back against the trunk of the tree I'm sitting under, my mind wanders back to the hour before. Dru and I had come home from a bit of illicit hunting and I'd been doing a pretty good job of ignoring her complaints that I hadn't let her kill the nice shopkeeper she'd fed on, when I smelled it.
Sex.
It has a very distinctive odor. Hot, musky, earthy.
And there was blood, too, just a hint...and vanilla.
Only one woman I knew wore vanilla, and the rich combination of odors were coming from upstairs.
And then the scream had come from the courtyard--a sound of such terror and anguish and such exquisite pain. Once upon a time, I would have reveled in such a sound.
But, not anymore.
Recognizing that voice, I had run for the courtyard, but was too late. Too bloody late.
Buffy lay on the flagstones naked, in a growing pool of her own blood. Her eyes were wide open, but there was a strange peaceful look on her face. A look of almost acceptance.
Standing over her, equally naked, covered in her blood, licking her heart which he held in his hand, had been her lover, her killer, my sire, my enemy, my friend.
Angel.
His head had swung towards me and I had amended my first impression.
Angelus.
Instinct had taken over--protect the slayer, and, if unable to do so, avenge her...
And so now I sit surrounded by his remains. They're mixed with her blood, scattered lightly over her still, pale body. They're together forever, just the way they always wanted to be.
I don't know what happened, though obviously I can guess. Buffy had never stopped loving Angel, never stopped wanting him. Every time they had met, the sexual tension between them had almost been enough to drive ME insane, so what had it done to them?
Had she come here looking for him? Had he called her? Which one had given into their desires first?
Had it been hard and fast or slow and loving? Had Buffy found the peace in Angel's arms that she had been searching for in the two years that I had been working with her? Had reason fled, or had she wanted to die?
I'll never know the answers to any of my questions. And, in a few more minutes, it will be a moot point.
I killed my sire. Already considered a traitor by most of my kind, I've now committed the worst crime a vampire can. The only crime that is always punishable by death...and a very slow, agonizing death, at that.
If I don't choose my own end, I'll be hunted, executed without trial, as will be any who are found with me. The mode of execution is not a pretty way to die and not quick.
"Dru," I call softly, beckoning her to my side. Slowly she looks up, her eyes dead and empty, before she looks past me to the pinkening sky. Understanding fills those huge eyes and she crawls to me. I reach for her, pulling her into my arms, and she curls against me, her doll still clutched in one white hand. Her face burrows into my neck and I feel her tears wetting my skin.
I should let her go, send her inside, but I know she can't survive without me.
Know she won't want to survive without her Angel being in the world.
Strangely enough, I'm no longer bitter about that. She loves him, her Angel, her Angelus, both demon and soulboy.
But, she loves me, too, with a grand passion, a gentle warmth, a lusty heat, a wicked smile. She's my lover, my goddess, my queen, my all.
And I know I mean as much to her.
"Is it time to go, William?" she asks hesitantly, hopefully.
"Yes," I answer, lowering my mouth to her forehead, then lifting her lips to mine. We kiss tenderly, lovingly--two demons, yet full of true love for each other--our arms wrapping around each other tightly, in one final embrace.
As I feel the first rays of the sun hit my back, a thought flits through my mind, pushing aside the rush of pain.
You won't know him by his noise, but by his silence. When he comes for you, he won't come screaming, announcing his intentions, but he'll come.
Vaguely I remember reading that somewhere and it sticking in my mind. It's a quote about death, but I always applied it to Angel, too.
As the fire begins to consume me, as Drusilla's whimpers of pain echo in my ears, clarity fills me.
Angel had been the precipitator of my first death, and now was the cause of my final death.
And, both times he had come out of nowhere, silent yet determined, deadly in his intentions. The Angel of Death. My Angel of Death. My sire, my enemy, my friend, my creator and destroyer.
It's only fitting, I suppose.
End
Look, I killed people!!! Look what the WB has made me do! I never kill people in fic. I'm a lover, not a fighter.
*sigh*