Empty Places

It grows so slowly, she doesn't notice until it's almost too late. It's so stupid, so wrong, so laughable. For a long time she manages to dismiss it as impossible. She doesn't have to work at it, to try, it's not really even conscious; the idea is ridiculous, and she doesn't give it a second glance.

This is just sex, this is racing after sensation and feeling and life. There's no emotion involved - never mind that emotion. No matter what he might claim. Her certainty sustains and comforts her, lets her ride him to guilt-free completion. Helps her use and be used, find her release in his body. Seek out the fire she's been missing for too long now.

(It's pretty weird to go looking for fire and life in the arms of a vampire, of course, but logic hasn't played much into her decisions since she was- no, she can't think about that.)

She's a mess, he's willing; she doesn't need another reason to drag him against her, pull him deeper into herself, dig her nails into his back and insist on harder, faster, more, never letting up until she's satisfied. He offers himself up as her slave, and she takes and takes and takes. It's how it is, how it works. She doesn't have to be careful or hold back.

She can't break him, and it's a relief.

It's not lovemaking - it's barely sex. It's fucking, rutting, grinding, screwing. Nothing more. Even their kisses are savage, bruising. Of all the things she feels, the most vivid is disgust, both with herself and with him.

If it weren't for the aching cavern where her heart and soul used to be, she wouldn't need him to fill her up. She doesn't want to need it, and she will never, ever tell him she does. Bad enough she needs it at all; like hell is she ever gonna admit it to anyone, least of all to him. He's beneath her.

(Except when he's on top.)

This is nothing, is nothing, is nothing, she tells herself, over and over. It's not about him; it's about what she needs, not who she needs. Anything else would be... ooky. And kind of gross. He's a vampire, she's the slayer, it would be... wrong.

She has herself so convinced, she's so sure, she barely gives it a thought, then one night... months of being insistently non-thinky are no match for sudden clarity. For a split second of naked truth.

When the realisation hits - when, despite how sordid and degrading this all is, he looks at her afterward with a kind of reverent wonder on his face and it makes her catch her breath - it's as if she took a fist to her stomach.

She swallows back a gasp of pain and terrified understanding, throws herself away from him, forces herself to ignore the confusion radiating off him in favour of scrabbling at her discarded clothing, tugging it on with desperate speed. Must get out, got to get out, have to leave, have to leave right now. This is the worst kind of badness imaginable. This makes the mess with Angel look like some cute romcom. This can't happen.

"Slayer?"

She shakes her head, a refusal to meet his gaze, to hear him out, to turn and look him in the eye before she runs. She's too afraid of what she might see - or what he might see.

He's talking, but she keeps with the head shaking and doesn't let herself listen to whatever he's saying in a voice that's full of concern and hurt, and she can't have hurt him, how can she hurt a monster? He's not a person, he's a thing. (A thing that tried to save her sister. A thing that counted the days she was dead. A thing that looked out for those she loved when she was no longer around to notice, just because he'd promised he would.)

She lets his words drop to the ground unheeded. It's just remembered emotion, it's not real; his pride is wounded, not his heart.

(If he can feel pride, what else can he feel?)

He's a thing, she reminds herself desperately, an empty, soulless thing. A really sophisticated (and way inappropriate) sex toy.

(She tries to ignore the memory of his pain when Dru left him, tells herself it's different, that he and Dru are the same kind of creature, and anyway, he decided torture was a good way to prove his devotion. Twice. How sick is that? He doesn't, can't know what love is, she reassures herself, so she doesn't need to be so totally wigged out.)

"Buffy-"

(God, he sounds so broken.)

Hanging around for a cuddle has never been her style, not with him, but this time she's going for a new record. Must get out, must get out, must get out.

She stops half a dozen graves away from his crypt, and she's glad when he doesn't follow. There's no part of her mind hoping for him to run after her, of course not. She's grateful. Extra specially relieved, she's (almost) certain. She leans over, elbows balanced on her thighs as she pauses to catch a breath. She's not disappointed when she doesn't hear his voice calling her back.

The lack of him right now is of the good.

She frowns, sinks lower against the headstone. Suddenly realises her cheeks are damp with tears, and where did they even come from?

She can't do this any more. She just can't. She has to make it stop. It's always been wrong, but now the wrongness has taken on a shape she can't deal with, can't even bring herself to think about.

She can barely forgive herself for using him even when she knows - she's sure (she really is) - that his feelings are illusory.

She will never be able to forgive herself if she loves him.

~ fin ~