Gods And Monsters

Chapter Fifty-six:

While Xander swept up the glass fragments of the broken living room window that were scattered across the floor, Buffy and Willow conducted research with Willow's laptop at the dining table. Dawn, Anya, and Hel sat on the couch, skimming through textbooks for information.

"It's a loop." Xander complained. "Like the mummy hand. I'm doomed to replace these windows for all eternity. You know, maybe we should just board these up until things are less Hellmouthy."

Anya held up a notebook she was reading. "Nothing... And nothing." She raised two other notebooks into the air, one in each hand. "Cliff Notes to nothing. Nothing abridged..."

Willow glanced up from her computer screen. "Yeah, my search isn't turning anything up either." Her attention shifted to address Buffy. "Are you sure this thing called itself The First?"

"Pretty sure." Buffy replied. "It claimed to be the original evil, the one that came before anything else."

Anya regarded them from over the frames of her reading glasses. "Please, how many times have I heard that line in my demon days? 'I'm so rotten, they don't even have a word for it. I'm bad. Baddy bad bad. Does it make you horny?'" Under the scrutiny of everyone's bewildered stares, she added: "Or terrified. Whatever."

"It wasn't a line." Buffy stated. "When I came up against this thing, I felt it. It was ancient and enormous. It nearly got Angel to kill himself. And if we don't rescue Spike soon, God only knows what the First'll get him to do."

Xander's gaze swivelled over to a sleeping Andrew, who was tied to a dining room chair. "I wish Sleeping Ugly would come to. He's been out all night."

"Yeah, he was just starting to squeal when the spooky SWAT attacked. Said the First was held up at the Seal of... Danzar something?"

Dawn rose from the couch, approaching Andrew. "Hmm... Maybe he's just faking so he doesn't have to answer anymore questions." After a very brief hesitation, she pulled back her fist and sent it slamming into his face. She stood back to observe. He was unaffected. "Or maybe he's in a fugue state." Rearing back, she readied herself to punch him a second time.

"Dawn." Buffy interrupted sternly.

"What?"

"He'll come to when he comes to. Keep reading. If we're gonna rescue Spike, we need to figure out how to fight this thing."

Pouting, Dawn returned to her seat. "Anya gets to hit him." She muttered to herself petulantly.

"Hey!" Willow exclaimed. "Here, The First! ... Bank of Delaware." Her expression turned apologetic. "Sorry."

Buffy sighed. "Hand me the Watcher's Codex again?"

Hel stood, crossing the room and handing the hefty, leather-bound text to Buffy. Turning, Hel strode from the living room and into the kitchen. She zipped up the black hoodie over her distressed, charcoal grey T-shirt on her way outside.

Shutting the back door behind her, she took a seat on the porch steps. She closed her eyes and relished the cool night breeze caressing her face. Crickets chirped in the bushes.

With a sigh, Hel opened her eyes. She conjured herself a bottle of vodka, in desperate need of a drink. Unscrewing the cap, she brought the small, glass mouth to her lips. It burned her throat on the way down. She drank steadily, gulp after gulp, until her head was heavy and her vision became blurred.

Alcohol. Bottled freedom from reality. The soother of nerves and the banisher of negativity. Everything became simpler, somehow; crystal clear and straightforward. Her inhibitions vanished  and her body felt light as a feather. Anything seemed possible. It was utter euphoria.

Hel drowned her worries in vodka, rather than overthinking the variety of torments Spike could be experiencing at that very moment.

She was a walking, talking contradiction of kindness and cruelty, intellect and ignorance. She was a fickle hurricane, volatile. A mercurial dichotomy of caring too much and not caring enough. Capricious fire and supercilious ice. Hot and cold.

Her heart had been open once, a very long time ago. It was captured by a mortal man, known to her as William. But she was a sentimental fool back then. The outcome of their affair had been only pain, punishment for her vulnerability. It had hardened her. And now, deep down, Hel was afraid of feeling.

The kitchen door creaked open, and Buffy emerged onto the porch. "What are you doing loitering about out here?"

"I don't belong in there."

"I see."

Hel took another drink from her bottle and set it down beside her on the step.

Buffy sat down beside her and picked up the half-empty vodka by its neck. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

Buffy threw back a long swig, then lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She coughed, her face contorting as the bitterness of the alcohol stung her throat. "Thanks." She croaked. She held out the bottle and Hel took it from her.

"Don't mention it." Hel replied.

A momentary lapse of uncomfortable silence settled between them.

Propping her elbows on her knees, Hel leaned forward. "In my lifetime, I have witnessed the relentless passage of time throughout the ages. I have seen your world crumble and evolve, quake and adapt. I have seen empires collapse and civilisations reduced to ash. In the end, all that prevails is humanity. The will to survive is a flame that will not be extinguished. You're a stubborn race, I'll grant you that." Hel raised the bottle as if toasting to the legacy of humankind. "In all my years of existence, do you know what I have learned? We are but skeletons and flesh, every last one of us. Deep down, in our bones, we are all cut from the same cloth."

"Profound," Buffy remarked, standing. "Are you coming back inside?"

"Soon." Hel gazed into the shadows and foliage bordering the outskirts of the yard, contemplative. "I just need a moment to myself."

Buffy nodded. "Understandable."

The porch door swung shut behind her with a click, leaving Hel to her thoughts.