Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
Rating: PG
Characters: Buffy/Angel
Summary: The aftermath of Becoming.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon & co.
***
She dreamt about it sometimes, the sooty memories rising from the ashes of her mind to haunt her, in the dead of the night when she had no defenses. They never repeated themselves, never gave her a chance to prepare for the horror, the pain, the unending sadness of what was to come, but they all ended with the same whimper that echoed through her room. Sometimes it began the way the night began, with her stalking around her barren bedroom, hardening her heart like a warrior so that she could destroy a monster who knew her every breath, her every touch. Sometimes she would be walking along a deserted road, still and quiet and stretching towards eternity, until she reached a door that could never completely close off her fate. Sometimes she was older, weary, tired of death but too tired to live, and he would appear to show her the real meaning of both. It always began differently-she hasn’t decided if their entire relationship was so inherently deceitful that it seeped into her subconscious-but at the end of it all, she always held the blade, long and clean and shiny, in her hand.
Tonight, it started with a dance. It was dreams like these that cut the deepest, scratched the hardest, left her skin with battle wounds of a tragic relationship that would not heal. In the mornings she would always be mute, willing away the images so sweet, so real that they might have happened before she slowly set upon burning all the memories from her mind.
They were dancing. She thought it might have been in a classroom filled with a soft melody and crackles from the record player, but she can’t be sure. She was aware of their bodies moving to the romantic tune, and his slow breath on her neck. She was aware of the gun in her hand, all the slots save for one filled with useless bullets. She was aware of his hand resting on the curve of her waist, and she swore that her flesh singed beneath the flimsy material, beneath his pale hand. They couldn’t touch; everything about them repelled the other, and there was no middle ground for lovers on this war field they had created. Still, his silent heart longed for the fervent beat of hers, for the wash of emotions, for the blood that flowed through her veins, the same blood that dripped from his greedy lips and painted a path of fire to his stomach.
Her body was burning but she couldn’t pull away.
The gun in her hand, she shot him again, creating a hole in his chest to match the other two-one identical to the newest, the other covered by skin and bone and older than anything she knew. He staggered back, looked at her, a glimmer of a knowing smile on his lips. The bullet didn’t hurt him, didn’t even faze him. The marks she made were already healing, becoming nothing more than fading scars while she could still feel the sting of the scrapes and cuts on her skin.
The gun suddenly became sword. She saw it as he did, hazy with uncertainty gripped in her hand. She touched him with the tip of the blade, shiny and reflecting a picture of themselves on opposite sides of the blade.
She could see his eyes; they slowly changed from those of a monster to those of a man confused. She drank in the sight. She didn’t think she’d ever see them again.
Slowly she lowered the blade and leant in to kiss him. His lips were gently and hesitant, slow to respond, and she licked away the traces of blood before he could realize what it was.
Then she drove the sword through the oldest wound of them all, the void inside his chest that once held his heart, before it was stolen away, before he could give it to her to keep.
When he was gone, she continued to dance with dust, with the memory of his wounded eyes and her hands empty, to the music of his last cry. She traced the curve of his invisible cheek. In the morning, she didn’t speak until the memory was burned from her mind, and the ashes blew away.
Characters: Buffy/Angel
Summary: The aftermath of Becoming.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon & co.
***
She dreamt about it sometimes, the sooty memories rising from the ashes of her mind to haunt her, in the dead of the night when she had no defenses. They never repeated themselves, never gave her a chance to prepare for the horror, the pain, the unending sadness of what was to come, but they all ended with the same whimper that echoed through her room. Sometimes it began the way the night began, with her stalking around her barren bedroom, hardening her heart like a warrior so that she could destroy a monster who knew her every breath, her every touch. Sometimes she would be walking along a deserted road, still and quiet and stretching towards eternity, until she reached a door that could never completely close off her fate. Sometimes she was older, weary, tired of death but too tired to live, and he would appear to show her the real meaning of both. It always began differently-she hasn’t decided if their entire relationship was so inherently deceitful that it seeped into her subconscious-but at the end of it all, she always held the blade, long and clean and shiny, in her hand.
Tonight, it started with a dance. It was dreams like these that cut the deepest, scratched the hardest, left her skin with battle wounds of a tragic relationship that would not heal. In the mornings she would always be mute, willing away the images so sweet, so real that they might have happened before she slowly set upon burning all the memories from her mind.
They were dancing. She thought it might have been in a classroom filled with a soft melody and crackles from the record player, but she can’t be sure. She was aware of their bodies moving to the romantic tune, and his slow breath on her neck. She was aware of the gun in her hand, all the slots save for one filled with useless bullets. She was aware of his hand resting on the curve of her waist, and she swore that her flesh singed beneath the flimsy material, beneath his pale hand. They couldn’t touch; everything about them repelled the other, and there was no middle ground for lovers on this war field they had created. Still, his silent heart longed for the fervent beat of hers, for the wash of emotions, for the blood that flowed through her veins, the same blood that dripped from his greedy lips and painted a path of fire to his stomach.
Her body was burning but she couldn’t pull away.
The gun in her hand, she shot him again, creating a hole in his chest to match the other two-one identical to the newest, the other covered by skin and bone and older than anything she knew. He staggered back, looked at her, a glimmer of a knowing smile on his lips. The bullet didn’t hurt him, didn’t even faze him. The marks she made were already healing, becoming nothing more than fading scars while she could still feel the sting of the scrapes and cuts on her skin.
The gun suddenly became sword. She saw it as he did, hazy with uncertainty gripped in her hand. She touched him with the tip of the blade, shiny and reflecting a picture of themselves on opposite sides of the blade.
She could see his eyes; they slowly changed from those of a monster to those of a man confused. She drank in the sight. She didn’t think she’d ever see them again.
Slowly she lowered the blade and leant in to kiss him. His lips were gently and hesitant, slow to respond, and she licked away the traces of blood before he could realize what it was.
Then she drove the sword through the oldest wound of them all, the void inside his chest that once held his heart, before it was stolen away, before he could give it to her to keep.
When he was gone, she continued to dance with dust, with the memory of his wounded eyes and her hands empty, to the music of his last cry. She traced the curve of his invisible cheek. In the morning, she didn’t speak until the memory was burned from her mind, and the ashes blew away.