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Title:  Moment of Truth
Author:  Carrie
Rating:  PG
Setting: BtVS, S6



It was funny, he supposed, that one never quite knew what they would
be thinking the moment before their death until it actually came.

It seemed that an infinite number of images rushed through his mind
at the same time, many of them involving a tiny blonde woman with
hazel eyes, though he was too tired to even attempt to utter her
name.  He was grateful for them nonetheless; they made him feel less
alone in this moment.  Maybe he'd be allowed to wait around for her,
to meet up with her soul just one last time before the PTB passed
judgment on him.

But the predominant thought at the moment was of his irrational (and
impossible) urge to sit up and loudly ask if he could possibly get
some help here please.

They weren't ignoring him on purpose, and he knew this on some
level.  But another part of him wondered why in the world he'd
bothered coming back to them in the first place, if it was going to
end like this anyway.

He supposed he understood.  The other victims were mortal; death was
a more dangerous, more immediate predator for them.  But vampire or
not, couldn't they tell he was dying without him having to say it?

He knew they cared.  But caring isn't the same as understanding, and
*that * they certainly had never really done, had never fully
embraced what and who he was.  Cordelia had given him a worried look
when he'd fallen, before rushing back to give whatever aid she could
to the wounded around him.  Wounded who were, he knew, entitled to
far more care and compassion than he'd ever been.  Still, he was one
bitter vampire right now.

Give up your mortality on the off chance it might keep the woman you
love alive just a little bit longer?  Fight the forces of evil at
great personal risk, to both body and mind?  Great, but you still end
up dying alone among people that you know.  Somehow that's even worse
than dying with no one around you.

Not because they don't care, they wouldn't have stayed with him so
long if they didn't.  But they just didn't get it.  The big, tough
vampire can take care of himself, right?   A resurrected sire?  Not a
problem, just kill the bitch and move on.  After all, with all she'd
done in her very long lifetime, did she deserve any better?  Never
mind that they'd both done many similar things, often at the same
time.  Never mind that you were once where she had been then, all
soul having but not knowing what to do with it.  That only through
providence did you find the support you needed to really fight the
good fight.

He didn't miss the irony in that as he watched his life's blood drip
away and soak into the ground.

Still he couldn't blame them.  Wasn't he supposed to be the strong
one?  The invulnerable one?  The one who could take blow after
excruciating blow and still be up the next day to cheerfully continue
the fight, and maybe even take Cordelia shopping or fetch coffee at
some point?

He didn't want to spoil their illusions now, but if that was who he
was supposed to be then he'd failed yet again.  He wasn't the pillar
of strength they all expected him to be.  Temptations were just as
much a threat to him as they were to any of his human companions.
Anger and grief just as incapacitating.  Some weapons could be just
as dangerous to him as they were to anyone else.

Sure, he could have asked for help, but the time when that would have
done him any good had long since passed, now it was just a matter of
waiting.  So when they finally had the time to devote to his care, he
insisted that he was all right, that he'd just need a little while to
recover.  And getting the answer they expected, they moved onto the
next injured party, trusting that he'd be there when they returned.

Maybe he should have let them at least try to help him this one last
time, it would probably have made their grief easier to deal with.
But he was too tired, and too weak to stay around that long.

He was going to take a moment for himself; and he was going to make
it count.

Someone else could be strong this time.

That was what they could never seem to really and truly understand,
even if they had ever tried.  His job wasn't to always be the strong
one; it was merely to fight the good fight, to help whenever he could.

But he wasn't a miracle worker; he couldn't turn water into wine.
And his shoulders weren't large enough to carry the entire world and
still have the energy to be happy [bad idea anyway], no matter how
much he wanted to be able to.

It's strange, the thoughts that'll go through your mind when you're
dying.

No long list of regrets, just one truth to finally set you free.


-End
 

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