Salted Water

His Slayer had asked for a date and a place. The other Slayer had answered that she wanted to die that same night, in the Pacific Ocean. Which was just fine as far as Spike was concerned. The sooner they were done with all this nonsense, the sooner they could head back to Sunnyhell. Away from the brooding poof. Said Poof kept trying to talk Faith out of it while she was packing. She had decided that, if she was going to die, then her new life was starting right away, so she was moving out of the Hyperion, and apparently out of LA. It didn’t take long for her to fill her one and only duffel bag, and she was ready. She pressed her lips to Angel’s before leaving, and muttered something about paying her debts someday, before following Spike and Buffy out to the car, never looking back. As he drove away, Spike glanced back at his Sire in front of the hotel, looking at them through an expressionless mask. Things might be interesting when they returned to the Hyperion afterward to pick up Steven, who had asked to come back to Sunnyhell with them for a few days.

They were all silent as they drove toward the ocean. They needed a secluded spot, away from any potential witnesses, and had to search for a while before they found it. The extra mileage also helped to be sure that no one, Watcher spies included, was following them. At last, Spike found the perfect place, a small beach, barely visible from the slightly muddy road that led to it. Still silent, the three of them climbed down a steep ravine to reach soft sand that gleamed silver in the light of the half moon. The ocean was tranquil, almost flat with not a whisper of wind. The scent in the air reminded Spike of the last time he had seen the ocean, three years before. The last time, also, he had killed a Slayer.

It was another Slayer he had to deal with this night, since Buffy didn’t feel capable of being the instrument of Faith’s death. Technically, the water would be, but it was very unlikely she would consciously drown herself, hence the need for someone to ‘help’ her. He watched with a puzzled frown as Faith shed her shoes, jeans and t-shirt, until she was clad in just her black underwear. She looked at him and Buffy then, unconcerned by her lack of clothing, her grin emphasized by the soft light from the moon.

“Relax, B,” she said, almost laughing. “Not trying to seduce your boyfriend. I just don’t see the point in getting all my clothes wet.”

With that, she turned her back to them and walked straight into the low surf, plunging into the still water when it reached her thighs. Spike and Buffy watched her swim for a moment, both silent. The girl was going to die, but she apparently wasn’t traumatized by the idea. After a couple of minutes, Spike followed her example and removed his clothes, keeping only his jeans on. Turning to Buffy, he noticed that she seemed very apprehensive, as if she was the one who was about to drown. Trying to reassure her, he gave her a smile, a hug, and a kiss on the forehead, before approaching the water. He remained by the edge, where the waves barely touched his toes, waiting for Faith to decide she had had enough frolicking for the night. The water seemed almost warm to him, but then it didn’t mean much, considering that his flesh was the same temperature as the air around him.

After a few more minutes of swimming, Faith seemed to notice at last that he was waiting for her. She came back toward the beach, until she was standing with water up to her waist, just a few yards from Spike.

“So how do we do this?” she asked quietly, and for the first time she sounded hesitant.

Spike started walking toward her, slowly, indifferent to his jeans becoming soaked.

“I suppose it would be easier for you if you’re unconscious,” he said grimly.

His words almost surprised him. Since when did he care about making it easier for his prey? Except…she wasn’t an ordinary victim. This wasn’t an ordinary kill.

“OK. So how do I get unconscious, then?”

Silent, he approached her, until he was standing only a step away. The same beginnings of fear he had heard in her voice were showing on her face too, and for a moment he faltered and thought about just walking away, the Council of Wankers be damned. He might have done just that, if it had been just his life being threatened by the bloody idiots. But he couldn’t leave his Slayer exposed to danger just because a girl looked at him through fear filled eyes.

“Turn your back to me,” he told her, his voice cold as ice.

Shivering, she obeyed, moving unhurriedly in the water, her body rigid in anticipation, her arms wrapped around herself. Immediately, he stepped toward her, snaking his arm around her neck as he had earlier. This time, however, his grip was tighter, and his free hand was pushing her head forward, gently but firmly. She panicked then, letting out a small cry as her fingers clutched at him, her nails scratching the bare skin of his arms. After a few seconds of struggle, she went limp. He held her just an instant longer, then let her slide, face down, into the water. He grabbed one of her wrists, holding it so that he could feel her pulse, while his other hand pressed against her neck with the same purpose. Both touches were unnecessary, since he could hear her heartbeat, but he wanted to feel exactly when she died. No reason to leave her in the water one second longer than necessary.

As he felt and heard her heart slowly giving up, memories came to his mind, powerful, and, strangely enough, painful.

His first Slayer. She was still a child, maybe fifteen. He could almost feel the pain again as her holy water doused blade had caught his eyebrow. But suddenly, her black braid was becoming blonde, her eyes were turning hazel, and when he tore into her neck, it was Buffy he was holding roughly against his body.

The second one. A woman, that time, not a child. He didn’t know if she had been called late or if she had just lived longer than Slayers usually did. He was on her, his hands already twisting her head to break her neck, when her ebony skin became suddenly golden, as if tanned by the Californian sun, her blonde hair spread around her head like its rays, and again it was Buffy he killed.

The third one. Buffy herself. Even now, knowing that she was his Childe and loved him, it still hurt like hell to think of that moment when he had heard her heart beat for the last time.

And now, the fourth one. At the second her heart stopped, his eyes played a trick on him, and her black curls were suddenly shimmering gold under the moon. Choking on the cry that was rising in his throat, he gathered her in his arms and carried her to the beach.

In the faint light of the night sky, Spike and Faith were two shadows standing in the calm water. Then they moved, and only one shadow was left for Buffy to watch, a shadow whose skin and hair were almost gleaming white. Watch was all she could do. She was frozen in place, knowing that she was witnessing someone’s death, yet thankfully too far away to see exactly what was happening.

She wished there had been another way. She had thought about it from every angle, but it was the only idea she had had. As much as she abhorred causing someone’s death, it was necessary to save Faith in the end. She was only grateful that Spike was willing to help. She would never have been able to do it herself. She had expected him to comment on the fact that one day she asked him not to bite anyone, and the next requested that he killed someone for her. All he had said was that it wasn’t really killing her, since they planed on reviving her immediately. She knew that had been an attempt to silence her doubts, and she was thankful for it.

Time slowed, and it seemed that Spike was immobile in the midst of the slow waves for hours instead of mere minutes. At last he moved, and Buffy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. When he turned back toward the beach, he was carrying a limp body in his arms. As if in slow motion, he came out of the water, and gently laid the girl down in the sand, kneeling by her side, brushing the matted hair from her face. Buffy was startled, when his head raised toward her, to see that his eyes were completely gold, his face a mask of inexpressive marble.

“She’s yours, Slayer,” he said in a strangely hoarse voice.

Swallowing the heavy lump that had formed in her throat, Buffy shrugged out of her duster and let it fall carelessly to the sand before kneeling by the body, just opposite Spike. She saw her hands carefully tilt back the girl’s head, then start pressing on her chest. She heard her voice count out loud. She was conscious of forcing air into her mouth. But it all seemed like someone else was trying to revive the girl, not her. Yes they were her hands, her mouth, her memories of CPR training. And still she felt like she was observing from afar, and was not an active participant to the scene. She was almost oblivious to Spike’s eyes on the girl and on her. All she was aware of, painfully so, was the body lying in the sand, whose heart stubbornly refused to start beating again. She started doubting then, and reality crashed down on her. The hands on the girl’s wet and now clammy flesh were hers again. The lungs that burnt from being used more in the last few minutes than in the last few years were hers again. The eyes that had started to sting and fill with unwanted tears were hers again. The voice that was urgently calling for her former enemy to fight and wake up was hers again.

Tears rolled down the brunette’s cheeks, but they were being shed by Buffy. Faith wasn’t hearing. Faith wasn’t breathing. Faith just lay there, dead, her eyes open and staring up at the softly moonlit sky she could no longer see.