Blow met blow in the apache dance. Her rage turned to lust. Her hand unleashed him.
They fell through the floor, still joined, descending deeper and deeper into the pit. The night filled with their moans and shrieks. Bloody and bruised, they devoured each other. Finally, spent, they slept, not touching.
Sun fire woke them. He was stupid. She was cruel. Her night was a bad dream; his, a dark fantasy.
She threw on her clothes, vowing never again. He watched her leave, unable to follow.
He tried to remember every detail. She tried to forget everything.
Joined, not united.
Nothing made sense. Time twisted and writhed around her. The only constant was Spike.
He was no help. All his suggestions burned inside her. To lie. To hide. To pretend she wasn’t the killer she knew she was. A killer like him.
She would not play in the pit with him. Time to drag herself out. Be right. Be good.
But she hit him as he lay on the ground, refusing to defend himself. She struck him. She beat him. Why wouldn’t he fight back? She barely saw him though the red of her own rage. Her own self disgust.
This can’t be happening.
I let myself believe for a second that she cared.
Then Captain “God I hate that man” came in and shot it all down the crapper.
Okay, hiding the eggs was not my most brilliant plan. Didn’t know what they were. Thought I’d make her a few bob and surprise her. Take some of the load off.
The worst part? Not the cavalier way she chucked the grenade into my bedroom and blew it to pieces.
No, it was the way she left. The way she said it was over.
The way she called me William.
This can’t be happening.
Seeing Spike and Anya – Anya! – having sex. Everyone watching.
How could he do this? How could he hurt me this way? Why?
Why Anya? Why not some nameless little hooker? And why in the Magic Box?
My baby sister saw them. Xander saw them. It took everything I have to stop him from killing Spike. Why did I stop him?
If that had been all. If that had been the end of it.
But he told Xander. Told him what we had…
I feel dirty. I feel naked. I feel…
God help me, I feel jealous.
It is the night, and he rides off into the dark.
Holding her down. She struggles. She cries in frustration.
Everything inside him is screaming “What have I done?”
Knee between her legs. Clenching her arms.
It can never be right now.
Lips forced to hers, blocking her cries.
He forces the motorcycle, faster, faster.
Flash of breast.
Into the dark.
Stink of liquor in her face.
Smell of the gasoline.
That’s why I can never trust you.
Roar of the engine.
Buffy, my God, I didn’t…
But he did. And now he must make sure it never happens again.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/252756.html