Author: Kat Lee
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Challenge/Prompt: nekid_spike 30in30 Day 12: Tremble, Touch, Laugh, Tell Me, and The One You Love
Word Count: 1,036
Date Written: 16 May 2017
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Whedon, not the author, and are used without permission.
I don't like this -- I hate it --, and I don't like you. I don't like the way you make me feel. I don't like the fact that you have everything I want, you don't deserve it any more than I do, but what's worse is, you don't appreciate it. You want to complain about your friends always relying on you, your Watcher expecting so much of you, your mother the same.
At least you have a mom. You have a Watcher and friends who are still alive. Somebody actually believes in you, B, believes you can be the best in all things -- daughter, friend, and Slayer --, and you actually can save the world. They rely on you, because they know you'll be there for them. They expect better of you, because they believe you can and will give them the best. You have any idea how much I would give to have one person, just one look at me the way they do you?
Of course you don't. You've got the fucking world where you want -- for the most part, boo hoo, I sent my boyfriend to Hell, so what? Look at what you do have. Look at what's all around you. And then look at what I have. Look at what I don't.
My parents never cared for me. I got my little sister killed. What friends I had who might've actually given a crap about me were killed fast and hard when I was called. My first Watcher was killed, because I wasn't good enough, just like I'm not good enough, to everybody in this damn town and the fucking Watcher's Council too, to be your equal, or even your secondary.
I'm not good enough for you. And yet here we are in the dark, your big eyes asking me to give you things no one else ever has, to give you things you claim you don't want when the others are around, to give you things you'd never admit to desiring -- not to your mom, not to your Watcher, not to your friends, and especially not to your damn boyfriend.
But I come to you any way, every night. I touch you any way. I give you everything you ask for without ever being asked. And I tremble when you touch me inside. I tremble inside at your touch. God, I hate it. I hate it, because I know nothing can ever come from this. I hate it, because I know when the sun rises and your friends are around again, you're going right back to being the bubbly, little ex-cheerleader that you, that they expect you to be. You're going right back to being everything everybody wants you to be except me.
You complain every night about what they want from you, what they ask, what they demand, but what about me? Here I am in the dark, waiting to give you what you want, and not even asking anything in return. Not even asking to be let out into the light. If I could ask for one thing, just one thing, B, it wouldn't be your equal or even to have what you have. It would be for your love, and you're never gonna give that, not to me or any other chick. For you, it's all about the Dead Boys. It's all about what your mommy and Watcher dearest would want, what will keep looking cool in your friends' eyes, keep them being devoted to you and not laughing at you.
You claim you don't want them, but I see the lies every night in your eyes. I feel them in your finger tips, the way they touch me oh so gradually, the way you shake with nervousness, the way you stop, freezing stone cold statue still, any time any one comes close to the cemetery. And then, of course, there's the cemetery itself. Who goes to a cemetery to screw? Who but us?
And when the night is still, the sunrise is close, and the rest of the world has finally gone to bed, or squirreled away into their little hidey holes for another day, who do you have to lie for then? Whose eyes are you looking into when your world screams with passion and pleasure? Whose name do you gasp aloud when my fingers skillfully bring you to Heaven? Whose name do you whisper when you fall, crashing down from the stars onto my naked flesh? You actually look at me like I could be the one you love then.
I want to believe -- I do --, but I know better. This isn't my first rodeo, babe, and you're not the first one to make me your clown, but you will be the last. There will never be another after you. I know that. I understand it already, just like I'm always going to be reaching for you and you're never once going to reach back where others can see, you're never once going to caress me in the broad light of day or look at me like you're looking now. You're never gonna call my name like when others can hear.
You're never really gonna be mine. I don't want what you have any more, B; I want you. But it doesn't matter. I can't have you. I won't have you, because you'll always be too busy being what everybody else wants you to be to live your life for yourself. You'll always be too busy pleasing everybody else, saving everybody else, but I'll wait here in the dark for as long as I can.
I can feel your heart pounding against mine. Ours is a perfect rhythm, you know -- No, you don't. You never have; you never will. You'll never be still long enough here in the shadows with me to listen to my heart beating in perfect unison with yours. You'll never even listen to my heart. Because you don't want me. You don't love me. You just want to feel the way I -- and only I -- can make you feel.
Damn, I hate this. But I love you. And that's why I'm fucked.