Author: Claddaugh Kitten
Rating: PG-14
Summary: Part 10 in the "Hate You," series.
I hate him.
Never in my most-likely-short life, will I ever speak to him again. I was let out of my cage for the first time this morning. It isn't really a cage, but I'm being held prisoner, aren't I? Damon came in, dressed in workout clothes, his hair all mussed around. He looked as if he'd been jogging or training. I wasn't really sure. I sat there on the bed, watching him as he silently investigated the room.
"No need to run the checks, Damon. I didn't try to escape or kill myself or anything. Just ran around on my wheel in this nice little cage I have." I snapped, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
"It wasn't the room I was worried about," He answered, his voice low. He walked a few paces towards the bed and sat down, I scooted back from him, shifting the matress again.
"He misses you, you know." He raised his eyes to meet mine, and I looked away quickly. I didn't want him to see the tears pricking my eyes.
I miss Angel dearly. I never thought I was so attached to him. It's too hard to think about him, because when I do, it's as if all the air just goes out of the room. So I don't think. It's easier that way. Damon sighed, and got up to leave.
"So that's it, huh? You come in and remind me about all the bullshit you're putting me through, and then leave. Is this some sort of neat little plan to drive me out of my mind? Is that it?" I said, my voice low to try and keep from crying.
He doesn't speak. He simply walks out the door, speaks to someone outside, and leaves. I pick up the tray from my uneaten breakfast and throw it at the closed door. The plates shatter, streaking cold cereal, juice, and eggs all down the wall. I smile, even as the tears start falling again.
I hate it so much here. I've only been locked here a few days, but I hate it. Damon hasn't really done anything but deliver my meals three times a day, like clockwork, and check in on me while I'm sleeping. I know that much. I caught him once while I was still awake. He didn't notice.
A figure entered the room not long after. I sat with my back to the door, counting spots on the ceiling to try and stop crying.
"Cordeilia?" I turn around at the voice, and realize who it is. Spike enters and walks the few steps to the bed, hugging me tightly. I press my face to his duster, revelling in the feeling of the cold leather to my hot face. He kisses the top of my head, and releases me.
"Why are you here, Spike?" I ask, my voice wavering slightly.
"He misses you. Hell, I even miss you." Spike says, evading my questions.
"So then why am I here?" I search his grey eyes, looking for an answer. He looks down, dropping his eyes to his boots, speaking in a hushed voice.
"If we hadn't, you could have died."
"And why does this make a difference? I am dying." I say harshly, ignoring his look of surprise.
"Don't be so surprised, Spike. You knew it all along, didn't you? I can feel it. Doyle's powers? Oh wow, what a whole lot of good those did me. Half the time, I'm crazier than a cuckoo, and the rest of my time I spend getting sick, or being hurt." Spike's eyes meet mine, the deep pools of grey seem to darken. And then I realize, he's crying.
"I'm sorry. We-" He pauses, as if thinking. "We had to. You can't be helped any other way. Your powers will kill you if you can't control them." He answers, his voice shaking. He reaches for me again, embracing me, trying to apologize.
He doesn't notice my eyes darken, or the whisper as some of the heavy furniture in the room begins to rise from the floor. I gasp and try to focus on something else, too late. Lightning flashes, and a harsh downpour hits the windows, and the furniture begins to drop, crashing and splintering all over the room. An antique table shatters the window, and the rain pours in, the wind gusting behind it, driving the shattered glass all over the room. I hear screams from outside the room, and the door slams open, from the sheer force of the wind in the bedroom.
Spike panics, gripping my shoulders, yelling at me to stop. But his voice seems so far away. I can't control what's happening anymore. The television is ripped from it's mounting, thrown across the room, the case smashing into pieces, sprinkling down over our heads. Damon enters, wielding some sort of weapon. He begins shouting, his voice barely carrying over the noise. I watch something fly towards us, and simply resign myself to unconsciousness as the drawer whips through the air, connecting swiftly with my head. Blessed darkness surrounds me, and I pray, hoping this will be the last time.
It wasn't. Probably far from the last, but who's counting?
I woke up early, while it was still dark out, my mind in a haze from the drugs I'd been given. I wasn't even in my room anymore. Some white-walled empty sort of hospital room. It sort of reminded me of the rooms Spike had told me about. The Initiative, or something. I really don't know. I was full of needles and little monitors were running all around the table, taking countless readings.
Nobody was in the room. That is, until Damon walked in, dressed in blue scrubs, accompanied by a young nurse. He took a look at some of the monitors, and motioned to the nurse while she scribbled furiously on a metal clipboard. I glared at him, and looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. He sat down on the stool beside the table, examining the cast on my arm. My wrist probably broke again. Not that it matters. I'm so fucking drugged I can't feel a thing.
"Do you know why you're here, Cordeilia?" He asks, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him.
"I won an all-expenses-paid trip to the nuthouse?" I answer. He doesn't even acknowledge the sarcasm in my voice.
"I didn't think it would happen this soon," He started. I stare at him, not comprehending his words. From the drugs or something else I'm not sure.
"What?"
"You've been called." He answers, briefly. I stare at him harder, as if that will help. Realization hits me foggily, and I grasp at something, hidden and complex that is apparently beyond my reach.
"Called? What? But..But that's not right. I'm not a Slayer!" I exclaim, my voice harsh from not speaking for so long.
"That's not the reason." Damon says, simply. Fear creeps up from my stomach, and I desperately try to push away the ugly little thought in the back of my mind: That Buffy's dead, and somehow, the Powers That Be have decided that I should be the Slayer.
"Then what the fuck do you mean, Damon? If it's that important, why can't I know? You've already got me in the dark about everything else, why this now?" I ask, my voice raised to the point that I'm nearly yelling. Damon doesn't answer. Not that I'm surprised, he never answered my damn questions to begin with.
"Fine. Fuck you, Damon. Get out." I say as calmly as I can. As much as my gut is telling me to grab him and kick his ass, I know that's one fight I wouldn't win. I turn away, keeping my back to him, and fall back asleep in the hazy dreamworld I was in before, leaving Damon in the clean cut silence of the empty room.
I don't want to do this. I can't. I'm handing her a death sentence. Again.
"No. I won't do it. Not again, not ever." I say to the woman standing in front of me.
She's a gypsy. From the same clan that cursed me so many years ago. She's small, wrinkled, and very old. Her hands are knotted from years of work, adorned in the gold coins and chains of her people. She is wrapped in exquisite silk, from head to toe. She looks important. Probably the head of the tribe, I'm guessing.
"You must. It's her destiny, and yours." I clench my fists, grinding my teeth together to try and keep myself from tearing the woman into pieces.
"Destiny to what? To die? To go off and get herself killed just because you show up and say so?" I grind out. What buisiness does this woman have in our lives?
"It wasn't my choice. I am not the one giving orders, Vampire." I sigh, looking at her. The power almost rolls off her in waves. So it's more than her tribe. Something, bigger, much more powerful.
"Let's go." I growl, enjoying the fear evident in her eyes. Let her be scared. I'm too angry to apologize. I grab my duster, opening the door to let the woman through, and slam it shut, not bothering to lock it. As the woman passes by me, I notice how small she really is. She only comes up to my chest, maybe even smaller.
Then again, I suppose size really doesn't matter to the Powers That Be.