you gave your heart to me

[herotypical]

Who: [Bad username or site: univalent title= @ livejournal.com] & [Bad username or site: slaying title= @ livejournal.com]
What: The vampire and the Slayer work through the war and just a few of their abundant issues.
When: Backdated - last full evening of the draft.
Where: Battlefield/Dorms
Summary: It's a lot of violence with an extra punch of emotional turmoil. This is their typical canon recipe for sentimentality.
Rating: R (violence, etc)


Buffy closed her eyes tight against one more spray of blood. She felt it hit her face, warm enough to cause her stomach to heave with an instinct of disgust. It was a sign that even her resolve was beginning to tarnish. It wasn't that she enjoyed killing. Or, at least, it wasn't the kill she enjoyed. The fight was separate to that. The punches, the hits, the bruises and the adrenaline. They were all so easily separated from that final blow, the scythe slicing roughly through the base of a person's wings. Just like the General. It was that much harder when they didn't burst into a cloud of dust. So much more personal.

The Slayer had fared well enough throughout the week of battling. A few serious injuries, but they had been dealt with. Tonight, fighting in the eerily extra black-and-white moonlit night, she had collected an assortment of superficial cuts and slashes. Her jeans were torn on both knees--it could have been from any number of attacks. She couldn't remember which ones, specifically. Far too focused on the task at hand. She tugged back. Hard. Disengaging her weapon from deep in the back of her latest enemy. In the early days of the battle, she had tried telling herself not to care too much because--enemy or not--these were people and they would come back. Just like the rest of the dead in Luceti. Only that rationalization lost its appeal rather quickly. Resurrection rarely translated to hope for Buffy Summers.

She breathed out. There were so few members of the Third Part left in their little slice of Hell. She dropped out of slaughter-mode for a moment to try and catch her comrade's eyes. Spike. She knew he was close. She could feel the vampire's vampire-ness all the more strongly thanks to the removal of whatever restrain the village normally had in place on her abilities.

Comments

[univalent.livejournal.com]

The fighting was a lot more hands on for the vampire, who was much more lethal without a sword in hand - though he had one and alternated between using it and discarding it in favor of just making due with his hands - and didn't shy away from the splatter of blood. In fact, in a way he would not soon admit to for the sake of not disturbing others with facts he was pretty sure they could guess well at anyway, the blood gave fuel to the energy he felt. Not in the sense that it was literally feeding him, of course, but the mere smell and sight of it made him feel alive with restlessness that needed to be spent and drove him to fight more, to keep going and tear more into the forms of those they'd been sent to fight against.

He liked killing and then he didn't. His demon thrived on it, sang out in a roaring chorus of triumph each time someone fell at his hand, smirking within his being at the smell, the sight, the sounds, the feel - all of it was like one beautiful, blood musical number he was taking part in. The part of him that was human, the soul, hated it; made him frown and cringe at the sound of bones snapping and flesh ripping, but knew it was necessary. He'd told her once, before he'd gotten it back, that war and killing were a natural part of the cycle of history, that people like Caesar and the Europeans who claimed the Americas from it's natives were just following the steps of that waltz. That still rang true to him. You did what you had to do, because it was what needed to be done.

And what needed to be done wasn't always pretty or what you wanted. You make due, suck it up and deal.

Spike stepped back and wiped blood off his face from a cut on his left cheek, just below the eye, with the back of his hand. He looked over at the Buffy, a few paces away, and watched, silently, as she did her duty just as he was doing his. His mouth twitched up at one corner for a brief moment when he caught her gaze, a quiet signal of being alive - or rather, still undead with the 'un' not threatened.