I Don't Know You Anymore

His lips are running down my neck as his hands caress my back. He pushes me against the wall of the crypt as he continues his explorations. My hands move up his arms to be tangled in his hair.

What I¹m doing is wrong, I know it is, but for some reason I keep coming back for that one last high. I know it may sound strange, but that¹s what he is to me. A drug. Something I¹m addicted to.

I don¹t keep coming back because I have feelings for him, at least that¹s not the way it started; I come back because I need to. I was just empty. I needed something to make me forget, but to make me feel, just feel, at the same time. The part that scares me the most is that he¹s the one I go to when I want to feel alive. Not my friends, not Giles. Him. I keep telling myself, Œthis is the last time, this is the last time¹, but my body never keeps that promise.

I crave him now, the way that I crave a coffee in the morning or non-fat yogurt after patrol. As we continue to moan and whisper to eachother, I think I hear something outside.

“Spike,” I whisper into his ear. He doesn¹t stop, I don¹t even know if he hears me. “Spike, stop. I think I hear something.” His kisses and caresses slow, but he still doesn¹t stop.

“Well, it is a crypt, love. I¹m sure there¹re all sorts of lil¹ nasties around here,” he says between kisses. “You can go kill them later, you know, when we¹re done.”

He starts unbuttoning my blouse, and I watch him, still a little wary. Suddenly, the door to the crypt bursts open and reveals a man I know all too well. He wears his usual black ensemble. However, the look on his face is something I haven¹t ever seen. Pure disgust.

“Oh, God,” I whisper quietly to no one in particular. Angel hasn¹t said a word, he merely stares at me, not looking at Spike at all. “Angel,” I mean to sound firm when I say his name, but it comes out barely a squeak. I firmly move Spike off of me, and he looks at the floor, knowing he doesn¹t want to get involved in this. I just look into Angel¹s eyes from across the room. What I see there now brings tears to my eyes. He looks so sad. I begin to walk toward him, but he suddenly turns around out of the crypt and out into the darkness of the cemetery.

He¹s walking quickly but I easily catch up. “Angel,” I call, with a great regret in my tone. He ignores me and keeps walking. I am merely two steps behind him, so I violently grab his arm and turn him around. “Look at me!” I finally scream. He turns around, and I see a single tear roll down his left cheek.

“Please,” I plead, “talk to me.” My hand softly grasps his, and when I think he¹s going to finally say something, he takes his free hand, puts it over mine, and removes my hand from his. That simple act hurts more than I can describe. After recovering from that action, I continue to speak. “Say something, anything.” He is silent. “Tell me you hate me, at least then you¹d be talking to me,” I say, getting a little more nervous with each passing second.

“I need time,” he finally says, huskily. “I can¹t even look at you right now.” His words cut me right to the core, and I stare down at his feet. “How did you know?” I ask him, wanting to know who would hate me so much as to tell my Angel what my life has been reduced to.

“Does it really matter?” he asks me in return. “I guess I just don¹t understand. If you needed to talk to someoneŠhave we really grown that far apart that you couldn¹t even talk to me?” He asks, sadly.

I look up to his face, trying to read exactly what he¹s feeling, trying to figure out what I could possibly say to make the pain less. “I¹m sorry,” is all I manage to say, my sobs finally getting the best of me. He looks at me square in the eyes, and it seems like he¹s taking one last look at me before he finally leaves forever. I silently pray that that is not the case.

“So am I,” he whispers. He wipes a single tear from my cheek, just as gentle as he always was, then slowly turns around and walks out of my life, again. I stare after him. I know I should not follow.