Title: Exit, Stage Left

Author: Sandra

Email: ArcThalia@aol.com

Spoilers: The Gift, season five.

Category: Character study. Sort of. Platform for that elusive Apocalypse,

widely known as Story With Plot. Eww.

Rating: R [for language and sexual references.]

Summary: "The only completely consistent people are dead." -- Aldous

Disclaimer: Don't own. Would appear on show by now, otherwise.

Author's Notes: First Buffy fic. Knew temptation was too great.

Feedback: Well, duh. Etc: Thanks to Vic for the beta. And Rach, for listening to my B/S[ism] 24/7.

"SPEAK, MEMORY--

Of the cunning hero,

The wanderer, blown off course time and again

After he plundered Troy's sacred heights . . .

Speak, Immortal One,

And tell the tale once more in our time." -- The Odyssey

You loved her, didn't you, mate?

She was the breath of temptation, the proverbial serpent to your Adam, the

greener side of the fucking white picket fence.

You remember? The sweet curve of her glistening lips, her creamy, bare

shoulders, and that shampoo-commercial hair bouncing obediently against her

golden skin. Rhythm. That's what you two had.

And it's there still. That rhythmic beat of her warmth through your ice,

like waves against an invisible shore. At times, her heart would beat for the

both of you, even if she didn't know it.

And it shall beat nevermore.

Fuck. You're still that awful, bloody poet, you wanker. You don't have a

soul, damn it. You have a brain. It's dead, but you have it. Use it.

Whatever magic acts as your puppeteer still discharges life to those dead limbs.

Arms, legs, head.

All useless when it came right down to it.

You were the dragon to her Beowulf. You were Paris to her Achilles. Judas to

her freakin' Jesus. Passions to her bloody Another World.

I'm counting on you, Spike, she said. 'Til the end of the world, cutie. You

promised, you sod. You promised no one would touch the Little Bit while you

were still around.

When was the last time you looked up the word responsible in the dictionary?

When was the last time you even cared?

She was the gnat in your ear, though. The gristle in your teeth, the bloody

thorn in your bloody side.

She was a bitch and a Slayer and your worst nightmare and, God, those eyes

of hers.

Blue and green and gold, and you've seen them so many times you can almost

remember the number of lashes decorating each eye.

Just say yes, and make me the happiest man on earth, you told her once. That

was back when you could touch her, when she loved you enough to belong to

you. When that Sapphic witch of hers gave you a gift.

Gift.

What would have happened next? When Glory was dead and the Nibblet was safe?

Would she have come to your crypt, kissed you? Pressed her small, thin

fingers into your bruises as you called out her name?

You'll find out on Saturday.

What happens on Saturday?

I kill you.

You've killed two already. It was good. It was blood and power and life, but

this one wouldn't have it. Same to you, with brass knobs on, mate. You hated

her. She hated you more. You hated her infinity plus one. She was a Slayer,

a killer, an enemy. Takes one to know one.

How could you win? How could you do anything but fall in love with her?

Ask again later. There's a Magic 8 Ball back at the crypt. Not that you'll

ever go back there. Right?

She'll sleep in one now. Perhaps not a crypt -- it's just the kid and a pile

of bills now -- but she'll sleep. You could be neighbors. You could sit at

her grave every night, tracing her stupid name in marble or stone or

whatever the Scoobies spring for.

But you're not the Poof.

No.

The Poof would have ran faster, struggled more, never failed, never given

up, never surrendered. He wouldn't have let Buffy die. He would have pushed

Dawnie off that soddin' tower without a second glance, and Buffy would have

hated him.

But she would still be alive.

Not you, though. You soddin' let her die. Worse, you -made- her die.

You'd rather she be dead, then hate you again.

So.

It's all your fault.

You're responsible. You. Not the blithering bint with the bad home-perm. Not

the bloody wanker with Mr. Hyde syndrome. You, you, you, all you, you

blinkin' idiot.

But you know what -really- blows?

You're responsible -- for her failure, her death, her pain -- and she

would've thanked you anyway.

And if she were alive, you'd tell her. You'd tell her to shove it.

You wouldn't wait anymore. You're not the type. You're still the Big Bad,

baby. Still a vampire. Graduated from the School of Angelus summa cum laude.

You'd find a way to get rid of this bloody chip in your noggin. Eventually.

And then you'd show up in her bedroom one night -- because Presto, No

Barrier

-- and take her.

You'd make her ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled up and your eyes

rolled up. Yeah, baby. She'd show you all those muscles you've never dreamed

of, squeeze you until you popped like warm champagne.

And, yes, you'd beg her to hurt you just a little bit more.

Yeah.

Memento mori, William. Well, not you, because you're already dead, but you

forget sometimes. She's got -- had -- that little fanclub of hers. Buffy the

Vampire Slayer cult. Maybe she wanted to die. Because of them. How many

times have you threatened to kill them, and her little dog, too?

You couldn't do it, oh no, because you let what you could not do interfere

with what you could, but the Big, Bad God came along like a spider, and

Buffy

-- it still doesn't feel natural to spit out those two syllables -- couldn't

take it.

Always have your weapon ready, cutie, 'cause I always have mine.

Fe, fi, fo, fum, Slayer. Surrender all your goodies, luv.

You could never have killed her, though. Never. Never in a million years

could you sink your fangs in her delicate, little Buffy-neck and drink.

Breaking her neck was never an option, either. You'd never do anything to

disturb that beauty, that curve of her profile, that strength that rips you

apart every time you tear up another one of her photographs.

You could never kill her.

Never.

To kill this girl, you have to love her.

You better stop smirking. The sun's almost up.

Your third Slayer.

Finally.

--------------------