After The End

by indie

The pain is still there, but maybe ... less ... somehow. Its not better. I dont feel like Im healing, I must be, but still, its a different kind of pain now. More raw chafing dullness, rather than the searing, agonizing grinding that I remember from ... When? A day ago? A week ago? Months? I dont know. Time has no meaning in this hell that passes for life. I want to laugh. Werent we supposed to win the war at the End of Days? I know thats the version of the story I heard. Im not sure I have the strength to even feel betrayed anymore. Lies. They were all lies. Good isnt stronger than evil, it just had better luck. Evil is strong. It rules the world now. It pushed me to the edge of my endurance. But every now and then, even evil can surprise you. I am indeed surprised, shocked to the core. I thought I knew that demon so well, thought I knew every move, every corner of his sick and twisted mind. He should have loved it. I think he felt that way too. When he saw me, he knew he should have reveled in it, laughed riotously and congratulated my owner with a hearty pat on the back. But he didnt. Not even close. I couldnt exactly follow the action, both of my eyes were swollen almost shut. One of them might be damaged for good. I dont know, and frankly, its the least of my problems at the moment. He was angry, in a way Ive never even imagined. Before, even when he was pissed, he was always cocky and cool. He always had a witty comeback. But this ... This was blind rage. It scared me. I think it scared him too, or confused him anyway. I think maybe it doesnt bode well for my continued survival. I think he might finish me off to alleviate his self-loathing, to destroy any evidence of a conscience. But then I move and I feel the soft mattress, the down pillow, the bandages placed lovingly? over my eyes. I think maybe he has an agenda besides my suffering. But it doesnt mean hes a nice guy. Hes still a demon. Still a nasty son of a bitch. Im in and out of consciousness a lot, sleeping much more than Im awake, but sometimes when I wake up, I can hear Spike. Not talking. Nothing that coherent. I can hear him whimper and I know its him because I used to hear that sound sometimes. When Id walk past his crypt, after he got his soul and I still refused him, I would hear him whimpering inside his crypt. Whimpering for

me. These whimpers arent for me. Theyre for him. He doesnt want to die. I can almost smell his will to live some nights. But its so hard. Hes in so much pain. Angelus needs an outlet for all of his rage and Spike is handy as usual. I wonder sometimes how Spike managed to stay so cocky, being treated like that for his first decades with his GrandSire. Who knows, maybe it was being treated like that, that made him cocky. Drink. I jump slightly. I didnt know he was there. He presses a glass to my cracked, parched lips. It burns. Orange juice? I swallow, trying not to gag, but I cough and sputter anyway. I try to push the glass away, but he growls, low, deep in his throat. Its a warning. Im disobeying him. I open my mouth again, too weak to even try to defy him. Hes evil. I know that. Hes the demon who tortured me for months, who killed my Watchers lover. But still, hes nicer than my last owner. He doesnt lock me in a cage and show me to all of his friends. He doesnt slice at my naked skin just to see me bleed. He doesnt see how much pain I can take before buckling. Hes evil, but hes familiar. He wears my true lovers skin. He cradles my head like he cares and whether he intended to or not, he protects me from harm. I dont know what happened to bring me here. It was all blurry, made fuzzy an unreal by the pain. One of my shoulders was dislocated and I was seriously injured down there. They took turns with me, made me do all sorts of things because I was too weak to stop them. Theyd throw me onto my back and force things inside of me, force themselves inside of me. But they didnt stop there. They tore me as they pushed themselves into my bottom. It hurt, burned. I tried to fight them, but that just made it worse. They used me, hurt me, raped me, humiliated me. I hadnt eaten or bathed in weeks. The cage stank like my own waste, like their lusts. I was slumped against the frigid, steel bars, too weak to even pillow my head on my arms. And then it happened. I heard my owner, Jovnar, stroking his own ego, wishing to curry favor with a powerful demon. Angelus should have been impressed. It was work to rival his own. The humiliation of a Slayer. But Angelus hadnt been impressed. And none who saw me like that were allowed to live. He brought me home. With infinite patience, he bathed my bruised and broken body. He saw everything they had done, the sum total of their destruction of my physical self. His touch was tentative and gentle, but he growled the entire time, a sound of cold fury. His hands shook with rage as he slowly probed for more serious, hidden wounds. Luckily, there were none, but his touch caused me pain and I knew he chided himself for it.

The bed depresses under his weight and he crawls in behind me, his motions hesitant rather than fluid. I think he wants to see if Ill freak out, if his presence, the presence of any male will set me off. I wander too. My mind doesnt fear him though it should. But will my body? Will my flesh see no difference between him and those creatures who did this to me? He waits, holding the breath he doesnt need, gauging my reactions. I dont have any. I merely wait. He slides in further under the covers and after what seems like an eternity, his bare skin touches mine, his legs curling behind mine, his chest molding to my back. He continues, slowly, evenly, until Im cocooned within the shelter of his body. I wait, processing the knowledge that hes pressed against me. My skin warms his and what residual tension was left in my muscles evaporates and I relax against him. He doesnt feel like them. He doesnt feel like the monster we both know him to be. He feels like love. My love. The bandages still cover my injured eyes, so I cant see our arms folded protectively over my chest, our hands entwined just below my chin. But I can smell him. He doesnt smell like those animals that hurt me. He doesnt smell dirty, like sweat and cum and liquor, like pain. He smells cool and dry like he always did. Like soap and a hint of leather from the pants he wore all day. He smells like home, the only home in which I ever felt truly safe. I lean forward, opening my parched, cracked lips and I bite down gently on his thumb, just above the knuckle. Its an old habit. I used to do it to Angel a million years ago. It used to help me sleep, the taste of his cool skin against my lips and teeth. He used to have an almost permanent groove in his flesh from my teeth. They never broke the skin, but they always rested there, holding him close to me, ensuring he couldnt sneak out without waking me. The creature curled around me isnt Angel, isnt my love. But he has his memories. Our memories. He snuffs against the back of my neck, his breath cool on the exposed flesh. I cant help it, I press back against him lightly. Its not an invitation, but an acknowledgement. An acknowledgement that what hes doing is allowed, is accepted, is his right. And it is. I have neither the inclination nor the strength to try and deny the truth. I belong to him. And not because he won me. Not because Im a spoil of war that he took when he killed my former master. Im his because I always have been, always will be. He sighs, knowing what Ive accepted and for the first time since he found me in that cage, I feel something inside him besides rage. He breaths heavily, tightening his grip slightly. His nose still rests against my neck and he begins to purr. Its not for him. Its not an outward expression of his inner contentment. Hes

not content. Hes still pissed. But he purrs. He does it to soothe me. To soothe his mate. To reassure me that hell never leave me, never hurt me like they did. Its his way. He can never voice the words. But that doesnt mean theyre not true. His possession of me has nothing to do with sex, nothing to do with souls. I know it will be a long time before he comes to me, wishing to sate a physical need. I know when he does that he will be hesitant and cautious. It will be long after all of my physical wounds have healed and when the mental ones are packed away. He wont demand that I love him and he will not profess any such emotion on his part. Ours will be a relationship based not on what we do or say, but on what we know. And I know that I am his and he is mine. End Story