CLOSE YOUR EYES
"Buffy?"
What was
happening? What was he doing? What was she doing?
She stood over him, a sword in her hand. A strange light flashed off
it, glinting into his eyes.
He hurt
all over. Someone had beaten the shit out of him and he could feel
it. It must have been her--there was no one else there and she
was perfectly capable.
Her jaw
had been set when he'd looked up at her, her eyes flaring with rage.
Now the rage faded, replaced by confusion. The sword shook a little
in her hand.
"What's going on?"
he said. He pushed himself to his feet. He felt strange, as if
his body didn't belong to him.
"Angel?"
Her voice was small and wounded. Something in her face seemed to break,
to shatter almost, as she lowered the sword. He smelled blood,
looked down and saw it, trickling down her arm through a tear in her sleeve.
"You're
hurt."
She looked
down at the cut blankly as her touched her arm. Had he done that to
her? His head was beginning to hurt with the effort to remember
. . . anything.
She took
a step closer and he reached for her, pulling her close. Something
was wrong, so very, very wrong. "Buffy, God." He clutched
at her. She was the only thing here he understood. "I . . .I
feel like I haven't seen you in months. My God, everything's
so muddled, I . . ." She softened in his arms and he felt a sob
shake through her body as her hands clutched at his back.
After
a moment she stepped back and looked into his eyes. Her face
was covered with tears.
"What's
happening?"
"Shhh."
She touched her fingers to his lips. "Don't worry about it."
He let
her kiss him. Nothing else made sense. What the hell had happened?
He remembered . . . What did he remember?
He remembered
making love to her. He remembered thinking he'd never experienced
anything so beautiful in his life. And he remembered waking up with
her warm and soft next to him, and the deep, incredible feeling of love,
and peace, and pure joy that had settled over him--
And then,
strangely, the taste of blood in his mouth.
What the
hell had happened?
He blinked,
looking at her. There was something horrible in her eyes, something
so broken and sad he had no idea what he might do with it.
"I love
you," she said.
"I love
you . . ."
And there
was a sound behind him. He wasn't sure what it was, lacked the
strength to turn and look. But it made something cold prickle
in the pit of his stomach.
God, what
had happened? What had he done?
Her fingers
brushed over his lips. "Close your eyes," she whispered, and
he did, because he trusted her, because he loved her, because the sickening
sound behind him told him something was terribly, terribly wrong and the
cold feeling in his gut told him he'd had something to do with it.
She kissed him again
and he tasted tears on her mouth. Why was she crying? Why
was she letting go of him? He wanted her back, warm and soft in his
arms--
The pain
caught him by surprise. Vicious, slamming pain to his chest,
straight through his heart.
His eyes
jolted open and he stared at the sword protruding from his chest. He
could find nothing inside him to make a voice with and his mouth came open
in shock and horrible, horrible pain. The hilt of the sword began to
glow.
And he
remembered. In that single, agonizing second, he remembered everything.
He had
lost his soul. He had become Angelus.
And now
he was dying.
He felt
the life slip out of him and with his last fragment of strength he reached
out to her. "Buffy."
He wanted
to tell her he loved her, that he understood, but it was too late.
It was
too late, and as the world faded around him, the last thing he saw was her
weeping, pain-wrung eyes.
END.