nc-17 | rape/non-con | necrophilia
Sometimes, in the past, he thought about cutting her head off.
Not that it would serve any purpose, not that he really wants to, but at least he knows what to do with dead people. (Wesley does, anyway.) There are amulets and spells and wicked zombie magics. A million ways to reanimate a corpse. He almost tried a spell last month, but Wesley and Fred seemed to think that there was a pretty good chance that it would make her a flesh-eating, brain-dead zombie.
Or a frog. Either way, he didn't want to risk it.
He brings a knife up, holding it to her neck, smelling her; she wouldn't mind if he took a pint or two. The thought has cropped up occasionally in the past, and when it does, he usually leaves the room, but this time, he lowers his head to her neck and gently nuzzles the skin.
(Just one clean cut, he thinks, and - )
He waits for the fangs to come out, the demon to emerge, but there's nothing but her skin and the faint taste of salt. This is him, this is him, and that thought doesn't sit well with him. He tells himself that he's not evil, because evil people don't sit around and ruminate on what horrible people they are. They sit around and think about how much fun it would be to blow up the elementary school.
Except someone beat him to it.
He drops the knife at some point, the clang of it hitting the floor faintly registering in his head. She wouldn't mind, she really wouldn't mind, he thinks, and it's not as if there's anyone around here who would be disappointed in him.
"It's not my fault," he whispers. "It's really not."
He realizes that he's gripping her arm when her body shifts, slides across the bed.
"Wesley should have gotten Fred out," he continues. "He could have gotten her out. And Gunn - what the hell was he thinking? Lives his whole life in LA and he doesn't know that you're not supposed to stay out of the damn elevator in an earthquake? Especially if it's an apocalypse-induced earthquake?"
Of course, she doesn't answer.
"I had to go to you. I had to get you out. I had to make sure you were safe." He pauses, traces the line of her jaw. "Right? It's not my fault; it's theirs. They ... they had a responsibility to save themselves. I had a responsibility to you."
She's still silent, and he doesn't know that he's slapped her until the noise reaches his ears, when he sees her head turn to the side. Her skin is still pale.
He hates her, so much, right now, because he spent eighteen hours carrying her to safety, eighteen hours running through fire and rioting and what was quite possibly perpetual darkness to get her to something resembling safety. Safety was hardly an abandoned house in some piece-of-shit town in Nevada, but it would make do for now, while the rest of the world was falling apart. The apocalypse was here and the only bit of humanity that he managed to save was a girl in a coma.
(Yes, yes, yes, she is still in a coma.)
He falls asleep at some point. He dreams of sunlight, burning his skin, her perfectly tanned limbs, her hair, the way it used to be, long and thick. He dreams of turning to ash. He dreams of her fingers, sifting though it.
Then he wakes up. He forgot to cover the windows, but it doesn't matter; he's inches from the glass, body still intact, so he's guessing the sun hasn't emerged yet.
She's still asleep. (He tells himself.)
He realizes that he has no idea how to feed her. He realizes that he's hungry. He kills what was probably the family pet.
For her, he makes it to a hospital two hours away. Clears the rubble off a bed on the second floor, hooks up an IV, prays that he did it correctly. (She's just sleeping.) Blood in storage, like a feast. He binges, watches her as she doesn't stir, even when he drops the bags on the floor, flings them against the wall with force.
He hears looters outside. He barricades the door. The noises stop. He sleeps.
He wakes up in her bed. She started it, some part whispers to him, as he watches his hands pushing aside her gown. Her muscles are atrophied, her skin is blemished, she's not stiff anymore, her eyes dead and empty when he pries open the lids, and there's no satisfaction when he realizes that he's somehow inside of her. He squeezes his eyes shut, because vampires can dream, vampires can have nightmares, and when he opens them, he'll be at home, in a warm bed with her warm body, alive and awake, frowning at him for stealing the covers.
He thrusts harder; if he hurts her enough, he tells himself, she'll wake up. Slap him. Kill him. Something.