On the Beach
Setting: BtVS season 3, Wishverse AU
Rating: R, for language
Prompt: A very angsty sequel to Waking Up by drizzlydaze. One possible outcome.
600 words.
Warning: character death
On the Beach
He can't say it wasn't good while it lasted. Bloody wonderful, truth be told.
But it turns out you can't take the slay out of Slayer, and that's why they find themselves here, on this beach at night, just the two of them, the world empty around them.
"There's no one left," she says.
He fishes a pack of smokes out of his duster pocket. Condemned man's last cigarette. Lights one.
"No," he agrees. "No one."
She'd kept it local to start with. Killed a few Sunnydale townsfolk, killed the vamps that preyed on them - never mind that they were her sire's minions. Spike didn't care. They were wankers anyway. Besides, he'd fallen in love with her by then.
How could he not?
Watching her kill was like watching poetry in motion, and he always did have a taste for poetry.
But then she'd taken it up a notch. Dru had been first to die, despite his warning about her being off limits.
"She was in my way," she said, with a challenging look. Wanna make something of it, sire? "Not any more."
Lovestruck fool that he was, he'd thought it was jealousy - that she felt the same way about him. He'd fucked her right there and then, on a bed of Dru's dust. Forget her. You're all the woman I need.
Now, he knows it for what it was. Kill Cassandra, in case someone finally believes her.
After that, she went global - California first, then on, across the US, from state to state, then across borders and oceans, north, south, east, west. She killed everything - humans, demons, vampires. He followed in her wake, revelling in the glorious slaughter.
Because it was glorious - no denying it. He was too busy enjoying the show to even think about trying to stop her.
Not that he ever could have.
Seven billion - give or take the odd million - humans later, and who knows how many of his own kind, he understands that he might have sired her, but she's not his girl. She never will be. She's the Slayer.
"I've killed them all," she says, in a wondering voice. "Every single one."
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "That you have, love. It's taken a while, but you've done it."
She's not looking at him. Instead, she's staring out over the calm sea, to where the moon hangs in the air, a silver face laughing at them. Or maybe screaming. It's seen enough blood after all.
She wraps her arms around herself. There's blood under her fingernails. "I don't know why," she says. "I had to..." Her voice fades into nothing.
"Slay?" he finishes for her. He drops his smouldering cigarette butt in the pristine sand and grinds it out with his boot heel.
From the depths of his duster, he draws out a stake with her name on it. He has another one for himself, plus a flask full of dutch courage. Not that he'll need it.
He saunters towards her. "Yeah, you're very gifted." And I'm a bloody idiot.
"I have a gift? Spike..."
She looks at him, and suddenly she's a little girl again - unsure of herself - vulnerable. An unexpected pang grips his black, dead heart, but he steels himself. It was good while it lasted, but it's over now.
Everything is over, thanks to him.
He takes her in his arms, kisses her cool, scarred lips, caresses her blonde hair. Stakes her.
"Death," he says, gently, as she crumbles to dust in his hands. "Death is your gift."
Rating: R, for language
Prompt: A very angsty sequel to Waking Up by drizzlydaze. One possible outcome.
600 words.
Warning: character death
On the Beach
He can't say it wasn't good while it lasted. Bloody wonderful, truth be told.
But it turns out you can't take the slay out of Slayer, and that's why they find themselves here, on this beach at night, just the two of them, the world empty around them.
"There's no one left," she says.
He fishes a pack of smokes out of his duster pocket. Condemned man's last cigarette. Lights one.
"No," he agrees. "No one."
She'd kept it local to start with. Killed a few Sunnydale townsfolk, killed the vamps that preyed on them - never mind that they were her sire's minions. Spike didn't care. They were wankers anyway. Besides, he'd fallen in love with her by then.
How could he not?
Watching her kill was like watching poetry in motion, and he always did have a taste for poetry.
But then she'd taken it up a notch. Dru had been first to die, despite his warning about her being off limits.
"She was in my way," she said, with a challenging look. Wanna make something of it, sire? "Not any more."
Lovestruck fool that he was, he'd thought it was jealousy - that she felt the same way about him. He'd fucked her right there and then, on a bed of Dru's dust. Forget her. You're all the woman I need.
Now, he knows it for what it was. Kill Cassandra, in case someone finally believes her.
After that, she went global - California first, then on, across the US, from state to state, then across borders and oceans, north, south, east, west. She killed everything - humans, demons, vampires. He followed in her wake, revelling in the glorious slaughter.
Because it was glorious - no denying it. He was too busy enjoying the show to even think about trying to stop her.
Not that he ever could have.
Seven billion - give or take the odd million - humans later, and who knows how many of his own kind, he understands that he might have sired her, but she's not his girl. She never will be. She's the Slayer.
"I've killed them all," she says, in a wondering voice. "Every single one."
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "That you have, love. It's taken a while, but you've done it."
She's not looking at him. Instead, she's staring out over the calm sea, to where the moon hangs in the air, a silver face laughing at them. Or maybe screaming. It's seen enough blood after all.
She wraps her arms around herself. There's blood under her fingernails. "I don't know why," she says. "I had to..." Her voice fades into nothing.
"Slay?" he finishes for her. He drops his smouldering cigarette butt in the pristine sand and grinds it out with his boot heel.
From the depths of his duster, he draws out a stake with her name on it. He has another one for himself, plus a flask full of dutch courage. Not that he'll need it.
He saunters towards her. "Yeah, you're very gifted." And I'm a bloody idiot.
"I have a gift? Spike..."
She looks at him, and suddenly she's a little girl again - unsure of herself - vulnerable. An unexpected pang grips his black, dead heart, but he steels himself. It was good while it lasted, but it's over now.
Everything is over, thanks to him.
He takes her in his arms, kisses her cool, scarred lips, caresses her blonde hair. Stakes her.
"Death," he says, gently, as she crumbles to dust in his hands. "Death is your gift."