Warnings: **FINAL DEATH**
Summary: A chance encounter with a new slayer and Spike's world ends.
Notes: AU 50ish years post BTVS
The overwritten, self indulgent product of a rainy Sunday
DISCLAIMER... None of the characters are mine. Shocking, I know. Also not making any money... and the surprises just keep coming. Joss Whedon (bless his little cotton socks) & Co own EVERYBLOODYTHING. I'mnotworthy I'mnotworthy. No breaches of any illegal breachable thing are intended. It's all done out of love, obsession, hero worship and horniness.
This Is The Way His World Ends
This was not the way it should end. It should have been in a blaze of glory, it should have been in a bloody and violent combat, it should have been a fight to the death, his or theirs, no matter. It should have been years, hundreds of years away. But it wasn’t. It was soundless. It was swift. It was unseen.
“Tonight you will slay your first.” The young watcher led his too-young girl into the dark corners of the graveyard.
This was not the way it should end. The world should have fallen to its knees. The world should have howled its anguish. The world should have had great heaving sobs torn from its gutted body. The world should have raged at the loss. But it didn’t. Only he had.
“An easy target, girl. There, beyond the mausoleum.” Two vampires, one dark, one light though weren’t all their evil, unfeeling hearts dark?
This was not the way it should end. He should have been left with proud recollections of the demon’s face glowing with joy. He should have been left with images of his fierce and vicious love in the throes of passion. He should have been left with reflections of love in the deep brown eyes. But he wasn’t. His was the memory of the cool lips, soft on his, the strong, blood covered hands framing his face, the long, powerful body writhing as though to merge with him, all these wonders he’d thought eternal, all dissolving to dust against him, leaving him nothing but the taste of an immortal’s mortality, in that infinitesimal moment that he knew he would perpetually relive.
“Halt here, they’ll not hear you from this distance.” Low creatures, taking pleasure in each other, unaware of their surrounds.
This was not the way it should end. He should have heard the cries of delight. He should have heard the fevered words of love. He should have heard the screams of ecstasy. But he didn’t. His alone to hear was the soft whimper, abruptly silenced as the lips that carried it crumbled away.
“Take aim and throw, girl. The dark one will be yours.” Nothing more than a fragment of wood but its path was true.
This is the way Spike’s world ended. His beloved mate, his beautiful Xander fading to dust in his arms.
“Well done, girl. You have slain your first demon.”
“Thankyou sir. But what of the other?”
The watcher turned from his charge and cast his gaze to the mass of black leather partially masked behind a haze of dust. In that brief pause, he should have acted, he didn’t, that moment assured their deaths.
He’d read of vampire lore, he’d read of past watcher’s exploits and encounters; it was these vicarious experiences that filled him with terror when the air before him cleared. The journals spoke of two demons, mated, bonded, Masters. Set apart from their kind because of their devotion, their fidelity to each other, their profound joy at the cruelty and brutality of their true nature. More than fifty years together and they had cut a bloody path across the world, slayers fell, watchers followed. One the childe of the other, himself the childe of a legend.
He could feel no pride at his new slayer having taken one of that famed pair. No pride at all, just abject, paralysing terror, as he now faced William the Bloody. Once chipped, once ensouled, but no longer. The slayer’s lucky strike was their death warrant.
Already the white-haired demon was upon his slayer with such speed she had no time to scream before her head was ripped from her neck, the demon not even taking time to drink of the blood these creatures savoured for its power.
He’d heard. He’d read. He was not prepared for the reality of it. His young slayer was broken. Pieces of her lay scattered, her blood soaking into the consecrated soil. Fear froze his emotions, he didn’t cry for her, didn’t plead for mercy for himself, he stood unmoving, defenceless in the face of his own demise. It was neither swift nor painless.
Spike dropped the crushed remnants of the slayer’s arm and turned to face the watcher. One sharp blow to the back of the neck to render him motionless but still conscious. Another blow to the voice box. He did not want the screams of the man to drown out the memory of his boy’s last sound. If he could still hear Xander in his mind then he wasn’t far away, he would know Spike was taking these lives for his.
Fast and bloody dismemberment for her, that was his doing. For this man, Spike drew on his boy’s favoured techniques. Ten fingers removed. Arms and legs shattered by heavy boots. A fist plunged through to extract warm innards and the week-old watcher was choked, strangled with his own viscera. Spike kicked at the watcher’s unseeing head until it rolled away, coming to a stop when it struck the pulped remains of the young girl. A slow, torturous end for the watcher. By Xander’s hand through his.
Nothing left. No more pulses to stop, bodies to tear. His motivation for this carnage overwhelmed him. His boy, his own precious love, gone. All those things the world should have done with him to mourn the passing, all the ways to express this tremendous loss were his alone. The howls, screams, pained moans, hoarse cries shared with no one.
This was the way his world ended.
Spike lay face down on the ground, in the place where Xander’s footprints still showed in the dew, where tiny balls of his love’s dust clung to the damp grass. Spike lay, with Xander’s ash coating his hands and face and waited for the sun.
He could feel it coming, the dawn. He welcomed the changing light, knowing that in less than an hour he would join his boy. Their ashes would mingle and return to the earth. No heavenly reunion for their demons, but perhaps their old souls had found peace together.
Spike closed his eyes and waited for the burning release.
It never came. A pounding of heavy feet vibrated through the ground and into his body. A familiar scent, not sensed in many decades. Large hands, once so harsh and violent against his body; once, hundreds of years ago, now gentle, now lifting him, now cradling him, now soothing him. A demon once so sadistic in his torture of Spike; kin who had sought him out, would now grieve and mourn with him.
“Childe, I felt him pass.”
A hoarse, shattered cry. “Angelus.”
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