*****
"For love is by definition an unmerited gift; being loved without meriting it is the very proof of real love." -Milan Kundera, from his novel "Slowness"
Looking back, I can pinpoint the exact moment that I was lost. I had been drifting towards it, sure, but I wasn't completely trapped until that night... until I ceased to be surprised.
That was the key you know-the lack of surprise. As long as his disloyalty still shocked me, as long as I could hold onto that deep down sense of trust, I could make this about fairness and necessity. It was when I couldn't even *pretend* to be anything but accepting that I knew it was done. It was finished-my fate sealed in a single instant-and I simply shrugged and moved on.
We had just escaped from a roving hell of demons and soldiers and corpses. A few army guys made it. We made it... and, since Spike strangely still counted as part of "we", he made it as well. The Initiative had just gone down in flames-both literally and figuratively-and I couldn't bring myself to care... not with Spike silently watching me, waiting for something... a signal perhaps? a threat? He's never told me, and I've never asked. But what I did next didn't seem to faze in him the least... so maybe he was expecting it... maybe he knew.
"With all of this hey-I'm-a-evil-government-agency-that-finally-self-destructed action going down, I bet they'll be a lot of soldiers sneaking around pretty soon. I'm headed home... You coming?"
And there it was. No surprise. No trust. Just an offer on the table based on nothing nearing logic, nothing nearing common sense... nothing really left for it to be but love.
He followed me back to my parent's house silently, back to the cramped basement that had become *our* home despite his taunts, despite his crypt, despite his threats about Faith, despite Adam. Echos of his presence still rippled through the air and that laugh never left-would *never* leave-the confines of my prison. It was *ours*... it will always be ours. Even when he was gone... even when he has drained me dry... what is always will be.
And he will, you know... drain me dry. It's inevitable. Dogs will chase cats, bees will flock to flowers, when one slayer dies the next will be called, and vampires will kill. And yet... I can't bring myself to hate him. How can you despise an animal for following instinct? How can I expect a predator to stop stalking his prey? The chip will come out-tonight, tomorrow, in the next year, in ten..? The time is irrelevant. It will happen and I will die-the ending has already been written-so why fight it? Why struggle?
His teeth rake across my neck and I shiver, a ghost walking over my grave. But then his hands are snaking under my shirt, his hips are thrusting roughly against mine, hot ice is swallowing me whole, and once again I can't bring myself to care. That final step has brought me *here*, into his arms, and who needs surprise when you can have firm hands directing your mouth... violent possession of your body... bruising kisses... and Death coming to you in a package as beautiful as this one.
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The End