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Chapter 39: Thirsty and Miserable
Author’s Note: This chapter covers the same time period as Chapters 7 and 8.
Someone asked me yesterday about my favorite chapters of this story. This is one of them—and not because it’s a happy fun chapter. This was one where I connected really hard, and I was so emotionally wrung out by the end of it I knew I’d written it as well as I could.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.
Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."
Chapter 39
Thirsty and Miserable
14 November 2000
Blood.
The Slayer was bleeding. And it was fresh. That was the first thing that struck me as I climbed into the bed last night. Bloody hell. Literally.
Didn't smell like a scratch, either. Or like it was her time of the month. This was more, still hot, still pounding close to the surface, the smell so thick in the air I wanted to bury my face in it and lap it up like a thirsty mongrel. Fuck. I can still practically taste it on my tongue, even now. So much of it, so close…brought the demon right to the surface. I didn't even think, I just moved. If she hadn't spoken…
"Stop," she said, and I could hear pain and fear in her voice. Bugger. I froze. Realised I was halfway across the bed, vamped out and reaching for her. I had to struggle for a second to get myself under control. Suddenly there I was, torn between ignoring her and running my hands all over her looking for injuries, and bolting for the other side of the room before my demon broke its leash. It was already straining, screaming, furious.
Thing of it was, I couldn't tell what it was worked up about, exactly. The smell of Slayer blood set it off, but I wasn't hungry, and the demon was snarling and furious that something had managed to take a bite out of her. Couldn't quite suss out if it was brassed that something got there before I did or if it was because she was hurt. Might've been a bit of both.
Mine.
Hadn't thought it in awhile, but it was always there.
"Please, please stay over there," she said.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to slide away from her a bit, not wanting to scare her further. Trapped in the dark with a vampire while she was bleeding and helpless was probably her worst nightmare.
Fuck, I’m such a ponce.
I should want to scare her. I should want to drain her dry.
"I know you can smell it," she said. "But I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd just…try very hard to ignore it?"
Could do that. Could try anyway. All I had to do was remember not to breathe.
Not like I need to, anyway, it's just…habit, mostly. Makes me feel a little less like an animated corpse.
Couldn't resist the urge to lean over and brush her hair off her forehead though. Don't know why, but I had to touch her, had to reassure myself.
"I'm okay," she said. "I'm going to be fine. I've had worse."
I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. Still, nature of her calling, innit? You fight, you’re gonna get injured sometimes. Still, she’d heal up, right as rain, soon enough. Slowly, I drew back and laid down, watching her, listening to the pulse pound through her hard and fast and close and afraid.
She didn't sleep, not for a long time. Could tell she was worried about falling asleep with me beside her and the scent of blood so strong in the air. Chit was right to be worried. If I were any other vampire…
All these months now, fighting my demon, falling for her…I'm changing.
I'm not sure I like it. Been what am for a long time. I built myself piece by piece over the last century.
Lately, though…Don't know what I am, anymore.
***
[Note: The following sonnet is copied alone on a single page, and mis-titled. The correct title should be "Sonnet 141".]
Fuckin' Bitch
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
-William Shakesp—
[Note: Obviously meant to read "Shakespeare", however the rest of the word is an illegible scrawl, as if the author were suddenly startled or interrupted and left the word unfinished]
***
[Note: The following section contains many, many sentences that the author has struck and rewritten, most of which are unintelligible due to the violence with which they were crossed out. Such sections have not been reproduced.
15 November (5 am)
Fuck. I'm a pillock.
Thought it would be a lark, at first. Get the Slayer all to myself for an evening. Take her out. Tell her a little story. Hopefully suss out what happened to her last night that left her bleeding in my bed.
Maybe try to seduce her.
Since when do my plans ever go right when it comes to the Slayer? Should have known.
Should have known the minute she told me what it was she was after. Can't tell a girl how you killed two of her sister Slayers without brassing her off, I guess. Tried, though. All a man can do, right? Try?
Didn't tell her everything, of course.
Couldn't.
Didn't tell her about William. Didn't want her to know what a whipping boy I was.
A poet. Yeah…she'd have laughed in my face. Would have been right to.
Never was a good poet. Was a good man, I suppose. Or I wanted to be. Tried to be.
Mostly William was a ponce, always watching from the sidelines, wanting what he couldn't have. Lord I hated that world, even then. Hated the stuck up wankers who turned their noses up at me, hated all their stupid sodding rules of society and how to be a proper gentleman. All that rot.
Hated how they mocked me, how they tore me up for even deigning to try to be…better. As if I didn't have it in me. As if I were somehow…less.
'William the Bloody Awful Poet', they called me. And I was. Never forgot it. Never will. Doesn't matter that it means something else now, that their mockery of William signed their death certificates in blood and iron…I still hate that name.
And Cecily. God, Cecily…haven't thought of her much in years.
I loved her. I loved her as much as William's poor poncy little human heart could bear. Didn't know what a pale shadow it was of the real thing. Had all these pathetic little daydreams that she'd see me, see the man I was, the man I could be if she'd just let me try. That she'd see how much I loved her, how I wanted to give her the world. Used to think that one day she'd read one of my poems and know they were about her, know that I'd poured my heart out for her. That she'd love me for it.
Bloody fool. Bloody stupid little fool.
Didn't tell her what Cecily said…not that I needed to.
Would have been less painful if I'd handed Buffy a blunt stake and begged her wiggle it past my ribs.
Didn't tell her that Cecily's rejection left me sobbing like a complete poof.
Or that being turned hurt like hell.
Don't know if it's because of the insanity or if it's just Dru, but she never figured out how not to hurt when she bites. We can make it pleasurable, if we want, make it near painless, too. But Dru…it hurt. At least until she started sucking.
Didn't tell her that as much as I loved Dru, she was never really mine, and I knew it. Knew that she'd toss me over for her "Daddy" whenever he wanted. Didn't tell her that Dru was my first, and that while I played her knight and called her princess, I knew exactly what I was: her dog. Barely allowed to lick her boots.
Didn't tell her that Angelus barely tolerated me, made me his whipping boy every sodding chance he got. That he made me into a monster. That he beat me whenever I wasn't demon enough, and fucked Dru in front of me whenever he wanted to teach me a lesson. Didn't tell her how I lost whatever was left of my humanity bit by bloody bit.
How do you explain that to someone who still clings to the fairy tale that when someone is turned the human is gone and all that's left is a demon with human memories? Bet she still believes in Santa Claus, too.
Not as if she would have cared anyway. All she wanted was to know how I killed those Slayers, as if it were a neat little question with an easy answer she could memorise like a charm to keep her safe.
Should have known she wouldn't like what I had to say. When does she ever?
I meant to scare her, yeah. I admit it. She'd brassed me off by then with her snobby attitude and her shirty little denials. Bloody bint doesn't think I know what's going on in that head of hers. Wanted her to see that I knew.
More than that though, I wanted her scared. Fear keeps you alive. It's a survival instinct.
Wanted her afraid. Wanted her thinking about how she could die at any moment. If she's afraid, she'll think more, take fewer stupid risks. Survive that much longer.
Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I'm not afraid of dusting. I like the challenge, like the fight, like feeling that rush when I'm scrapping for my life. But I know when to cut my losses, too. She hasn't learnt that yet. Hasn't learned to obey her instincts, to know when to run. She still thinks she can survive on skill and guts alone. I learnt that lesson early.
That Chinese Slayer almost had me twice, and it was sheer luck that saw me through.
After that, I learned. Trained. Studied every fighting style I could find and then some. Wasn't going to be surprised like that again.
Hopefully, she won't either.
Probably could have gone about it a different way, but I wasn't really thinking it through. I was having too much fun teasing her, scaring her, getting under her skin. Doesn't happen too often any more, so can you blame a bloke for getting his jollies when he can? Especially when she gets so hot and flushed and gorgeous when she's angry?
It was almost like really fighting her again, tonight, in spite of the chip. It felt good. Felt strong and alive for the first in a long time. There's nothing like facing a Slayer, and somehow knowing I can still hold my own with her, even when handicapped…well, it gave me back a little dignity.
For a moment.
‘Til she ripped it away again.
My fault. Shouldn't have tried to kiss her. Bloody stupid move, but I was running hot and horny and I could smell her arousal and fear and blood. If she'd just let herself see…
But no. Soulless demon. Forgot for a moment there. Forgot that what I am is so dirty and filthy she can’t bear the sight of me, that I stain her precious little hands every time she punches me.
Nothing quite like being kicked to the curb and stomped on. Nothing like having your dignity torn to shreds and scattered around you like filthy dosh.
Fuck. God. Hated her then, like I haven't hated her in a long time. Hated how she tears me down, makes me feel worthless, makes me feel like the monster I'm supposed to be. Hate how loving her makes me want to try, makes me want to reach for something I know—I bloody well know—I shouldn't have.
This is WRONG.
So goddamn fucking wrong and there's no way to make it right. No way I can ever be…what she wants. What she needs. No way I can ever be a man again, even if I wanted to be.
What I am…You can't go back from that. And I don’t want to go back. I like being what I am. Being strong, fast, immortal, being a vampire.
But god…I want.
I want more…so much more.
I hate this thing in me. I hate it. Fuck. I’m a demon, right? Not supposed to want. Not supposed to…It’s like there’s a traitor in me, turning my thoughts, turning what I am, making me…
Bloody buggering FUCK.
Isn't there a way to be what I am and still…be loved?
God I’m pathetic.
Wasn't thinking about that earlier, though. Was thinking of killing her. I was thinking how much fucking easier it would be if she were gone, if I never had to feel like this, ever again. If I could just put her six-fucking-feet beneath me.
Grabbed that old rifle out of the trunk and headed out to kill her, Harmony screeching away like a parrot behind me.
And remembered…
Remembered Dru, down in Brazil.
Remembered suddenly what she'd said.
"Why can't you kill her?" she'd asked.
I know now.
I can't.
I can't kill her.
I'm in love with Buffy. And it's going to dust me.
I thought I could, though. Thought all it would take was seeing her self-righteous little face sneering at me. Be so easy to just pull that trigger. The chip would blister my brains out, but then it’d be over. She’d be dead and there’d be nothing to do but get on with my unlife.
I thought I could do it.
Right up until I saw her sitting there, crying. God. It about tore my heart out. I've never seen her cry before. Didn't know what to do except…what I always do when a woman I care about cries. Give her a shoulder, if she wants. Not really sure whether I'd be allowed, with the Slayer.
But I tried.
All a man can do, right? Try?
Didn't tell her about my mum, though I probably should have.
Should've told her that I know what it's like to watch someone you love die by inches. To want more than anything to save them, even when you know you can't. To feel helpless, useless.
And to feel it all over again. Gods…Joyce.
I know no one would believe me, but I actually like Joyce. Always reminded me of my own mum. Decent, kind, a sweet lady. Know Angelus and Buffy both hated seeing me with her, but I wouldn't have harmed a hair on her head. Not ever.
I was surprised when Buffy let me stay. Let me sit beside her, and listen while she talked. Would've stayed with her till sunup, if she'd asked.
Not sure what I'll do tonight, once I'm in the dream dimension. Not sure how to act, how she'll act. She asked me about "Mr. Gordo" tonight. I wanted to tell her then. Started to, even, but the words wouldn't come out of my mouth. Got caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out.
Whatever that hell bitch did to me won't even let me acknowledge that I know what she's talking about. Even if I could react, I doubt she'd see.
Don't know what to do now but try to see it through.
A year and a day. Halfway there.
Yeah, I can bloody well do this.
***
15 November 2000 (noon)
Wish I knew what went on in that head of hers.
Last night she broke down and cried, in my arms. Let me hold her till she was all dried out and weak as a kitten.
Still doesn't know it's me, of course, but that only makes it odder.
Though, she did try to touch my face. Not sure if that counts against the White Witch's rules or not, but I'm pretty sure if Buffy feels that scar on my eyebrow she's going to know it's me.
Better to keep her mitts off, even if I do want her hot little hands all over me.
And she wants to spar? Not sure how I'm going to handle that, but it's too good an opportunity to pass up.
Dozy chit keeps twisting me. If it weren't for this journal, I'd suspect I'd gone round the bend. 'Course it's possible that I have, but so many bloody pages makes—
I wonder if the Slayer keeps a journal?
Someone asked me yesterday about my favorite chapters of this story. This is one of them—and not because it’s a happy fun chapter. This was one where I connected really hard, and I was so emotionally wrung out by the end of it I knew I’d written it as well as I could.
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. Show writers and any other quoted authors have been credited in individual chapters. I'm making no money from this—it is purely in the name of fun.
Betaed by Phuriedae*
*because Spike is English, I’ve made a rather anal retentive attempt to spell things “properly.” My beta (who IS British), has asked that I include the following disclaimer: “Any Britpicking mistakes are my beta's, because she reads too much fic written by you bloody Americans and is used to your bizarre ways by now."
Thirsty and Miserable
14 November 2000
Blood.
The Slayer was bleeding. And it was fresh. That was the first thing that struck me as I climbed into the bed last night. Bloody hell. Literally.
Didn't smell like a scratch, either. Or like it was her time of the month. This was more, still hot, still pounding close to the surface, the smell so thick in the air I wanted to bury my face in it and lap it up like a thirsty mongrel. Fuck. I can still practically taste it on my tongue, even now. So much of it, so close…brought the demon right to the surface. I didn't even think, I just moved. If she hadn't spoken…
"Stop," she said, and I could hear pain and fear in her voice. Bugger. I froze. Realised I was halfway across the bed, vamped out and reaching for her. I had to struggle for a second to get myself under control. Suddenly there I was, torn between ignoring her and running my hands all over her looking for injuries, and bolting for the other side of the room before my demon broke its leash. It was already straining, screaming, furious.
Thing of it was, I couldn't tell what it was worked up about, exactly. The smell of Slayer blood set it off, but I wasn't hungry, and the demon was snarling and furious that something had managed to take a bite out of her. Couldn't quite suss out if it was brassed that something got there before I did or if it was because she was hurt. Might've been a bit of both.
Mine.
Hadn't thought it in awhile, but it was always there.
"Please, please stay over there," she said.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to slide away from her a bit, not wanting to scare her further. Trapped in the dark with a vampire while she was bleeding and helpless was probably her worst nightmare.
Fuck, I’m such a ponce.
I should want to scare her. I should want to drain her dry.
"I know you can smell it," she said. "But I'd really, really appreciate it if you'd just…try very hard to ignore it?"
Could do that. Could try anyway. All I had to do was remember not to breathe.
Not like I need to, anyway, it's just…habit, mostly. Makes me feel a little less like an animated corpse.
Couldn't resist the urge to lean over and brush her hair off her forehead though. Don't know why, but I had to touch her, had to reassure myself.
"I'm okay," she said. "I'm going to be fine. I've had worse."
I wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. Still, nature of her calling, innit? You fight, you’re gonna get injured sometimes. Still, she’d heal up, right as rain, soon enough. Slowly, I drew back and laid down, watching her, listening to the pulse pound through her hard and fast and close and afraid.
She didn't sleep, not for a long time. Could tell she was worried about falling asleep with me beside her and the scent of blood so strong in the air. Chit was right to be worried. If I were any other vampire…
All these months now, fighting my demon, falling for her…I'm changing.
I'm not sure I like it. Been what am for a long time. I built myself piece by piece over the last century.
Lately, though…Don't know what I am, anymore.
[Note: The following sonnet is copied alone on a single page, and mis-titled. The correct title should be "Sonnet 141".]
Fuckin' Bitch
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
-William Shakesp—
[Note: Obviously meant to read "Shakespeare", however the rest of the word is an illegible scrawl, as if the author were suddenly startled or interrupted and left the word unfinished]
[Note: The following section contains many, many sentences that the author has struck and rewritten, most of which are unintelligible due to the violence with which they were crossed out. Such sections have not been reproduced.
15 November (5 am)
Fuck. I'm a pillock.
Thought it would be a lark, at first. Get the Slayer all to myself for an evening. Take her out. Tell her a little story. Hopefully suss out what happened to her last night that left her bleeding in my bed.
Since when do my plans ever go right when it comes to the Slayer? Should have known.
Should have known the minute she told me what it was she was after. Can't tell a girl how you killed two of her sister Slayers without brassing her off, I guess. Tried, though. All a man can do, right? Try?
Didn't tell her everything, of course.
Couldn't.
Didn't tell her about William. Didn't want her to know what a whipping boy I was.
A poet. Yeah…she'd have laughed in my face. Would have been right to.
Never was a good poet. Was a good man, I suppose. Or I wanted to be. Tried to be.
Mostly William was a ponce, always watching from the sidelines, wanting what he couldn't have. Lord I hated that world, even then. Hated the stuck up wankers who turned their noses up at me, hated all their stupid sodding rules of society and how to be a proper gentleman. All that rot.
Hated how they mocked me, how they tore me up for even deigning to try to be…better. As if I didn't have it in me. As if I were somehow…less.
'William the Bloody Awful Poet', they called me. And I was. Never forgot it. Never will. Doesn't matter that it means something else now, that their mockery of William signed their death certificates in blood and iron…I still hate that name.
And Cecily. God, Cecily…haven't thought of her much in years.
I loved her. I loved her as much as William's poor poncy little human heart could bear. Didn't know what a pale shadow it was of the real thing. Had all these pathetic little daydreams that she'd see me, see the man I was, the man I could be if she'd just let me try. That she'd see how much I loved her, how I wanted to give her the world. Used to think that one day she'd read one of my poems and know they were about her, know that I'd poured my heart out for her. That she'd love me for it.
Bloody fool. Bloody stupid little fool.
Didn't tell her what Cecily said…not that I needed to.
Would have been less painful if I'd handed Buffy a blunt stake and begged her wiggle it past my ribs.
Didn't tell her that Cecily's rejection left me sobbing like a complete poof.
Or that being turned hurt like hell.
Don't know if it's because of the insanity or if it's just Dru, but she never figured out how not to hurt when she bites. We can make it pleasurable, if we want, make it near painless, too. But Dru…it hurt. At least until she started sucking.
Didn't tell her that as much as I loved Dru, she was never really mine, and I knew it. Knew that she'd toss me over for her "Daddy" whenever he wanted. Didn't tell her that Dru was my first, and that while I played her knight and called her princess, I knew exactly what I was: her dog. Barely allowed to lick her boots.
Didn't tell her that Angelus barely tolerated me, made me his whipping boy every sodding chance he got. That he made me into a monster. That he beat me whenever I wasn't demon enough, and fucked Dru in front of me whenever he wanted to teach me a lesson. Didn't tell her how I lost whatever was left of my humanity bit by bloody bit.
How do you explain that to someone who still clings to the fairy tale that when someone is turned the human is gone and all that's left is a demon with human memories? Bet she still believes in Santa Claus, too.
Not as if she would have cared anyway. All she wanted was to know how I killed those Slayers, as if it were a neat little question with an easy answer she could memorise like a charm to keep her safe.
Should have known she wouldn't like what I had to say. When does she ever?
I meant to scare her, yeah. I admit it. She'd brassed me off by then with her snobby attitude and her shirty little denials. Bloody bint doesn't think I know what's going on in that head of hers. Wanted her to see that I knew.
More than that though, I wanted her scared. Fear keeps you alive. It's a survival instinct.
Wanted her afraid. Wanted her thinking about how she could die at any moment. If she's afraid, she'll think more, take fewer stupid risks. Survive that much longer.
Just because I'm immortal doesn't mean I'm not afraid of dusting. I like the challenge, like the fight, like feeling that rush when I'm scrapping for my life. But I know when to cut my losses, too. She hasn't learnt that yet. Hasn't learned to obey her instincts, to know when to run. She still thinks she can survive on skill and guts alone. I learnt that lesson early.
That Chinese Slayer almost had me twice, and it was sheer luck that saw me through.
After that, I learned. Trained. Studied every fighting style I could find and then some. Wasn't going to be surprised like that again.
Hopefully, she won't either.
Probably could have gone about it a different way, but I wasn't really thinking it through. I was having too much fun teasing her, scaring her, getting under her skin. Doesn't happen too often any more, so can you blame a bloke for getting his jollies when he can? Especially when she gets so hot and flushed and gorgeous when she's angry?
It was almost like really fighting her again, tonight, in spite of the chip. It felt good. Felt strong and alive for the first in a long time. There's nothing like facing a Slayer, and somehow knowing I can still hold my own with her, even when handicapped…well, it gave me back a little dignity.
For a moment.
‘Til she ripped it away again.
My fault. Shouldn't have tried to kiss her. Bloody stupid move, but I was running hot and horny and I could smell her arousal and fear and blood. If she'd just let herself see…
But no. Soulless demon. Forgot for a moment there. Forgot that what I am is so dirty and filthy she can’t bear the sight of me, that I stain her precious little hands every time she punches me.
Nothing quite like being kicked to the curb and stomped on. Nothing like having your dignity torn to shreds and scattered around you like filthy dosh.
Fuck. God. Hated her then, like I haven't hated her in a long time. Hated how she tears me down, makes me feel worthless, makes me feel like the monster I'm supposed to be. Hate how loving her makes me want to try, makes me want to reach for something I know—I bloody well know—I shouldn't have.
This is WRONG.
So goddamn fucking wrong and there's no way to make it right. No way I can ever be…what she wants. What she needs. No way I can ever be a man again, even if I wanted to be.
What I am…You can't go back from that. And I don’t want to go back. I like being what I am. Being strong, fast, immortal, being a vampire.
But god…I want.
I want more…so much more.
I hate this thing in me. I hate it. Fuck. I’m a demon, right? Not supposed to want. Not supposed to…It’s like there’s a traitor in me, turning my thoughts, turning what I am, making me…
Bloody buggering FUCK.
Isn't there a way to be what I am and still…be loved?
God I’m pathetic.
Wasn't thinking about that earlier, though. Was thinking of killing her. I was thinking how much fucking easier it would be if she were gone, if I never had to feel like this, ever again. If I could just put her six-fucking-feet beneath me.
Grabbed that old rifle out of the trunk and headed out to kill her, Harmony screeching away like a parrot behind me.
And remembered…
Remembered Dru, down in Brazil.
Remembered suddenly what she'd said.
"Why can't you kill her?" she'd asked.
I know now.
I can't.
I can't kill her.
I'm in love with Buffy. And it's going to dust me.
I thought I could, though. Thought all it would take was seeing her self-righteous little face sneering at me. Be so easy to just pull that trigger. The chip would blister my brains out, but then it’d be over. She’d be dead and there’d be nothing to do but get on with my unlife.
I thought I could do it.
Right up until I saw her sitting there, crying. God. It about tore my heart out. I've never seen her cry before. Didn't know what to do except…what I always do when a woman I care about cries. Give her a shoulder, if she wants. Not really sure whether I'd be allowed, with the Slayer.
But I tried.
All a man can do, right? Try?
Didn't tell her about my mum, though I probably should have.
Should've told her that I know what it's like to watch someone you love die by inches. To want more than anything to save them, even when you know you can't. To feel helpless, useless.
And to feel it all over again. Gods…Joyce.
I know no one would believe me, but I actually like Joyce. Always reminded me of my own mum. Decent, kind, a sweet lady. Know Angelus and Buffy both hated seeing me with her, but I wouldn't have harmed a hair on her head. Not ever.
I was surprised when Buffy let me stay. Let me sit beside her, and listen while she talked. Would've stayed with her till sunup, if she'd asked.
Not sure what I'll do tonight, once I'm in the dream dimension. Not sure how to act, how she'll act. She asked me about "Mr. Gordo" tonight. I wanted to tell her then. Started to, even, but the words wouldn't come out of my mouth. Got caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out.
Whatever that hell bitch did to me won't even let me acknowledge that I know what she's talking about. Even if I could react, I doubt she'd see.
Don't know what to do now but try to see it through.
A year and a day. Halfway there.
Yeah, I can bloody well do this.
15 November 2000 (noon)
Wish I knew what went on in that head of hers.
Last night she broke down and cried, in my arms. Let me hold her till she was all dried out and weak as a kitten.
Still doesn't know it's me, of course, but that only makes it odder.
Though, she did try to touch my face. Not sure if that counts against the White Witch's rules or not, but I'm pretty sure if Buffy feels that scar on my eyebrow she's going to know it's me.
Better to keep her mitts off, even if I do want her hot little hands all over me.
And she wants to spar? Not sure how I'm going to handle that, but it's too good an opportunity to pass up.
Dozy chit keeps twisting me. If it weren't for this journal, I'd suspect I'd gone round the bend. 'Course it's possible that I have, but so many bloody pages makes—
I wonder if the Slayer keeps a journal?
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