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Finding Freedom

Title: Finding Freedom
Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Character/Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: R/M
Challenge/Prompt: nekid_spike A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words: Day 21:
Warning(s): Cannon Character Death
Word Count: 1,223
Date Written: 22 August 2017
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.





His intent, blue gaze makes it seem, at times, as though he can see right through her to her very soul or, at least, what’s missing from it. She can play a part for the rest of the world; she does so every night and day. She can convince her family and friends that everything is fine, that she’s not constantly hurting, that she is whole and nothing’s wrong. She can lie to herself even, but she can not lie to him.

He sees right through her best shields no matter what she does. She can save the world, save his life or endanger it, drive a stake to his chest but not through it, and he simply looks at her and calls her again on her bluff. He knows. She doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. He always does. He always has. He always will.

He knows she’s not as good as they think. He knows she’s not as complete a savior or as good a friend, a daughter, or a sister. He knows where her weaknesses lay and what she truly is. He recognizes the death in her just as he recognizes it in himself.

There are times when she doesn’t want him to, when she wants to beat him until he speaks the lies she’s got everybody else believing in, when she wants so desperately to blind him to the truth. She’s beat him. She’s hurt him. She’s hit him until his eyes bled, until he begged for mercy, until he pleaded for her to stop, but she wouldn’t stop.

She’s hit him until she had to leave him. She’s hit him until he was a physical sign of the truth, his whole body crying out the reality that she is now forced to live in. She’s not the woman she was. She’s not the Slayer she should be, or the friend, or the sister. Her mother’s dead. Her father doesn’t want her, so she’s nobody’s daughter. She’s what nobody wants her to be and not what any of them want her to be.

She’s not happy. She’s not whole. She was ripped from the place where she belonged, and now she belongs nowhere. She doesn’t belong to him, but at least she feels when she’s in his arms. When she’s with him, she feels hatred, anger, and revulsion, all aimed at herself, but at least she feels.

The rest of the world doesn’t seem to affect her any more. She knows she should love the others, Xander, Willow, Giles, especially little Dawnie, but she can’t find any love left in her heart. She was ripped from love, ripped from joy, and she doesn’t have any of it left. All she has is this burning anger and self-hatred, and Spike recognizes the feelings because it’s easily how he’s felt for so long she neither knows nor wants to know.

She doesn’t want to feel this way. There are times when she begs him to make it stop, to make her stop. She hurts him hoping he’ll hurt her in turn, but he doesn’t. He gives her as much of what she needs as he can, and then he lays beneath her and lets her have her way. Rather that’s fucking the senses out of him or beating him mercilessly, he takes it all the same. He takes her, the truth of her, the ugly, naked, raw truth of her, when nobody else can.

And he completes her. When nobody else can match her, when no one else is willing to see the truth of what she has become, he sees, holds, and meets her. He takes her anger, takes her hatred, takes whatever she’s willing to give because she’s willing to give it all to him and has no one else to take it. He takes it all in, and then still he tries to tell her he loves her.

Perhaps scariest of all is the fact that there’s a part of her that wants him to love her, and yes, there’s a part of her, deep down inside her cold spirit, that thinks she could love him too. If she can feel anything good for anybody at all, she can love him. She can’t find her love for Dawnie, for Willow, Xander, or Giles, but yet she can find love within her for this monster.

She knows he’s a monster, no matter what he says, for she knows what he’s done. She knows he’s taken millions of lives. He’s beaten people until they begged to be killed. He’s raped; he even almost raped her. He’s slaughtered so many people that their blood could fill an ocean. He’s anything but good, but then she’s not exactly good herself any more.

She recognizes in herself attributes that she shares with him. They both love the violence. They both crave it; they both need it. In her own way, she’s as bad as him only she doesn’t have the same excuse he does. So much of what he has done was caused by the Demon inside of him, but she doesn’t have a Demon. She has only herself and this deadness inside of her that has remained with her every moment since Willow brought her back.

Her friend shouldn’t have brought her back. She’s not a Zombie, but she’s something worse, much worse. She’s supposed to be the hero, the Slayer on whom everyone can depend. She’s supposed to save the world, but she no longer cares if it rots or if her friends die vicious, horrible deaths inside of it. She no longer cares. She no longer loves, except that she does love what Spike does to her. He’s the only one who can make her feel alive, and that’s because his monster speaks to the monster within her.

“Tell me again,” she whispers, tasting her own blood on her lips. “Tell me again -- “

“I love you,” he growls, advancing.

“No, you don’t,” she snarls, striking out at him.

He catches her fists in his hands and yanks her arms behind her back and her body closer to his. “Yes,” he growls against her mouth, “you do, and I’m gonna keep fighting until you realize you do, Slayer.” His mouth slams down onto hers.

She wishes she was still the Slayer. She wishes that was all she was. She spent her entire life, from her sixteenth birthday on, fighting for the right to live her life while still being the Slayer. She’d been so determined to be herself while fulfilling the role for which she never asked that she never realized the truth: It was easier to just be the Slayer. It’s easier still to just kill and not ask questions, to just be a killing, fighting machine.

But as Spike’s tongue skillfully wraps around hers, the questions begin to fade from her mind. He kissed her hard and hungrily, and soon, she’s kissing him back. Soon, the thoughts in her mind are ceasing their constant spinning. Soon, all that matters is that he’s on top of her, plunging into her, and as she cries out, Buffy lets go. She can be a monster for one more night. She can feel for one more night, even if it’s only with Spike. She can be free for one more night.


The End

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