Shall We Dance?

Rogue Demon Hunter

Shall We Dance?

Rating: PG

Sam Perlo-Freeman

Disclaimer: The characters (with a few exceptions), places and concept of this story are the creation of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and authors of various Tales of the Slayers.. I just dabble with them.

A/N1: Set shortly before Christmas 2001, between Wrecked and Gone.

A/N2: Written in response to Margot’s Challenge for BBBFic

Buffy almost tripped over the package as she slipped furtively out of the house to... patrol… Though she knew it was futile, she told herself that her patrol must not take her past a certain vampire’s crypt… She stooped to pick the package up, a small, round object, covered in Christmas wrap. A tag was attached, with the words "From your three best friends." Nice of them. Early Christmas present. She opened the package, and found a snowglobe. Quite pretty. She screwed her eyes to make out the scene depicted inside. A girl and a guy, kissing… no, wait… her head was tilted back, he was leaning down towards her neck and… was that a stake in her hand?

As she stared into the globe, the snow swirled hypnotically, and she felt her eyes drawn towards the scene, which seemed to loom larger, drowning out everything around her… larger and larger, spinning, then a whooshing sensation as she felt herself pulled in… "Oh great. Mindsucked by a snowglobe. Can anyone say obv…"

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She looks up and gasps in shock as the vamp plunges its fangs into her neck, and the stake drops from her hands, clattering against the floor. "No… this isn’t…". But the pain feels all too real, as does the stench of the creature sucking the life from her. She feels dizzy, giddy. She tries to cry out, but no breath comes. She just hopes he isn’t going to… but he thrusts her away, and as her world darkens around her, she slumps to the…

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Fire. All around her. Searing, unbearable heat. She tries to move her limbs, but finds them held fast. She is tied to a stake. All around are crowds, throwing things at her, crying "Witch! Witch!" Her eyes catch those of a man - Her Watcher - standing back from the crowd, his jaw agape, his eyes tear-stained. He gazes at her in horror and shame.

Smoke invades her lungs, making her choke and retch. She should pass out now, but her Slayer strength keeps her conscious. She screams in agony as the flames dance higher, scorching her skin, her hair, her flesh. Her world becomes a searing red wall of pain, her dying scream a distant…

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Running. Ever running. As if she had always been running, and always would be. Except that she can feel the arrow’s poison flowing through her veins, gradually taking its toll. But still she runs, tracking the young man she is sworn to protect… finally they reached the city, where he is greeted by anxious crowds, hanging on his every word, till anxiety turns to cheers of victory. She collapses to the ground, her job done. He notices her, stumbles over, collapses beside her. "I’ve seen you before. Running with me at night."

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Buffy." It sounds wrong. "Thessily. He smiles at her quizzically.

"It was a good run."

"Yes," she says, the last of her air slipping away, "It…"

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She stands transfixed, her eyes gazing into those of the black-haired woman advancing towards her. And she knows who she is, and what she is, and she wills herself to move, to defend herself, but her limbs refuse to obey her mind’s command. The crazed vampire grasps her head, twists sharply, and…

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Again she runs, but this time it is familiar. The tempestuous rupture in the heavens before her, the horrors pouring forth, the great white vortex of energy far below her… and the point of utter calm within her as she leaps, the knowledge that she is complete, that she has done all she was put on this earth to do.

The last moment in this world that she was happy.

She crashes against the maelstrom beneath. The pain is unbearable, tearing her sinews asunder, but nothing disturbs the calm within. 

Then the memories of the place this led her to, and of everything that has happened since her friends brought her back, strike home, a twist of sorrow, regret and shame.

I get it now.

I am dying.

Every frickin’ death of every frickin’ Slayer that has ever lived.

What was that saying? However many times I die…

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I never get used to it.

And the pain ceases. She spins in an ocean of nothingness, a million thoughts and voices crowding her head. Then the spinning stops and her eyes open and she looks around her. No vampires, no vortex of energy. Just a load of old men, looking at her sternly. In her shaking hands, a goblet. One of the men nods gravely to her, beckoning her to drink.

No, you moron! You don’t have to do what this bunch of crusty old…

But to her immense frustration, she cannot stop herself from lifting the goblet to her lips and drinking. The world begins to spin around her yet again as the poison takes effect. But amidst all the harsh, unpitying eyes around her, she sees from across the room one pair that weeps, one face lined with sorrow.

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Dax. Ezri Dax. That was it.

Again she spins through the ages, through the darkness. Again her eyes open. But the darkness remains. As her eyes adjust, she can barely make out the malevolent, taunting grin of the Countess. She tries to move but she is held fast within her metal prison. Yet again she has failed.

And as the spikes pierce her flesh, the building and excruciating pain, the silent screams of her own agony, and the fading sight of the Countess Bathory raising a goblet of her blood to her dark, red…

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Detonation.

That was a short…

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She is whisked from one age to another, one death to another. Her throat is pierced, her blood drained; she is crushed by unstoppable demon blows, her neck is snapped, she is impaled, decapitated, poisoned, buried alive, drowned. A never-ending stream of pain, despair, panic, and the terrible knowledge of failure.

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And again she is on the floor, her head spinning. The familiar sensation of poison closing her system down. She is surprised to see a girl, no more than 16, kneeling before her, holding her hand, a stern look, but not without pity, on her face.

"Who… are… you?" she hears herself whisper.

"Me? I’m no-one. Just a girl. Just Tamar…"

As darkness engulfs her, the last words seem to echo from across millenia, across dimensions..

"The Vampire…"

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"Slayer!"

She looks up.

"You!"

He is different to how she knows him. His hair spiked, bits of metal hanging from all sorts of awkward places, his clothes torn. But there is no mistaking him.

"I was wondering when you would turn up."

"Y’know me, pet. Not going to miss a date with my favourite Slayer, am I?"

She draws her stake. He laughs.

"Shall we dance?"

"Let’s dance!"

And the thing about the dance is, you never get to stop.

They circle. They fight. They match each other blow for blow. It seems to go on for ever… 

Every day you wake up, it's the same bloody question that haunts you: is today the day I die?

They fight on. Now they are no longer in the alleyway, but aboard a subway rushing furiously beneath the streets of New York. When did that happen?

And part of you wants it... not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it.

Still they fight. But she is tiring.

Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What's it like? Where does it lead you? ... Every Slayer... has a death wish.

She lands a kick against his chest, and he falls to the floor. She is on top of him, pummelling him.

Sooner or later, you're gonna want it. And the second- the second- that happens... 

The train enters a tunnel. Darkness engulfs them.

You know I'll be there. I'll slip in... have myself a real good day.

She feels herself weakening. He is blocking her blows. Turning them. A flick of his wrists, and he is on top of her.

Say it's true. Say I do want to. 

She struggles desperately as he presses his hands around her neck. She feels his cold body, so familiar, loathsome and desirable, against hers.

It wouldn't be you, Spike. It would never be you.

She musters one final effort of will from within herself…

You’re beneath me.

And he is.

The train emerges from the tunnel.

She raises her stake, and plunges it into his chest, his face etched in astonishment before dissolving into dust.

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"Buffy!"

She awoke with a start, the snowglobe dropping from her fingers and smashing into pieces on the floor below.

"Willow…?" 

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Spike awoke with a start. He was drenched in sweat. If his heart beat at all, it would be pounding furiously.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed.

"Now where did that come from?"