A/N: I am very much ashamed by just how long it has taken me to write anything new, but I was unfortunately lacking in both time and inspiration. Now, I find myself returning to Spuffy, hopefully full of new inspiration for this story. It is based on an old (and of dubious quality) draft which I started a year or so ago. I hope you enjoy...


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He didn’t know what the Scoobies were up to, but he knew it was probably something he didn’t want to know about. Something they would regret. They had rushed back to the Summers’ house and sent him on his way with barely a word of thanks, even though he had sat there with the youngest – only – Summers for close to three hours while they did whatever it was that had them all jittery and nervous on their return. He told himself he didn’t care, he didn’t want any part of it, but the truth was that it niggled at him.

After everything they had been through, he thought he had earned himself at least a tiny smidgen of respect from her friends. He had proved himself time and time again, carrying out a one-man mission to keep the streets of Sunnydale free from demons. Just as she would have done. He had saved her friends’ lives countless times in the last few months. But it meant nothing, apparently. He was a convenient nuisance: someone they put up with because it saved them the hassle of fighting the various nasties that lurked in Sunnydale’s shadows. He was fed up of being on the outside, but he knew he could not leave. Not after the promise he had made.



He had left, angry and desperate to find either something to kill or something to drink, but – as usual – he had ended up in the same old spot: stood in front of her grave, hands shoved in his pockets to stop them from trembling, swallowing hard to fight back the tears. After one hundred and forty-eight days, it still hurt. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, trying to calm himself – at least for now, while he was out in the open. Didn’t do for Big Bads to be found sobbing in graveyards, after all.

Later, when he was alone, he knew the wave of grief – a wave that only grew day by day, instead of washing away to nothingness – would break over him and he would be helpless to stop it. It was somewhat of a ritual by now. He smiled a little to himself and focussed his gaze once more on the simple words etched into the marble headstone.

She saved the world. A lot.

Barely enough to evoke the true image of Buffy Summers, in all her glory, but it said it all – all she had ever done was save the world, in one way or another.




He was about to turn and move on, grief already starting to rise up within him, when he heard it. It had been prodding at his inattentive mind for as long as he had been standing there, but he had paid no attention. A whimper, and the tiniest sound of… He couldn’t place it, couldn’t identify the faint sound, but it sounded… it sounded like it was coming from below his feet.

“You’re going mad, Spike,” he muttered to himself and turned away once more.

Again, that sound pulled him up short before he could propel himself into motion. A whimper and – it was a scratching. Like… nails on wood. His eyes flew to the ground and he shook his head.

You’re bonkers.

But there it was again, a whimper and more persistent scratching. It wasn’t possible. It simply couldn’t be. And yet it came again: that desperate, wordless cry, the scratching – and now a thud. A short, sharp kick.



A moment later, rational thought banished for the time being, he dropped to his knees and began clawing at the ground. He heard the scratching again and hurried his own movements. Dirt stained his hands and clung to his nails but he kept going, desperation beginning to settle in his stomach. He clawed and clawed, his chest tightening in agony – until finally his hand made contact with soft, smooth wood.

“Buffy,” he whispered, stroking his hand over the coffin lid.

There was a pause and he thought maybe it had been his imagination - and then came a thud underneath his hand, followed by a muffled cry. Eyes wide, still not sure what he would find – or if this was some sort of hallucination - he reared back and punched a hole in the wood. There was a cry of shock, and then fingers crept out through the hole, tearing at it desperately. He blinked, hesitated a moment longer, and then with a cry of his own, he grabbed the edge of the hole – ignoring the shards of wood embedding themselves into his palms – and tore at it with all his strength.

He tore and tore, wood renting from wood with a cracking sound – and then a hand locked tightly around his wrist. It shocked him back to reality and with added desperation he ripped at the wood. Moments later, wild hazel eyes were locked on his and without a second thought, he dragged her out of the coffin and up onto the grass.



She hunched over, long hair hiding her face as she took several long gasps of air – but he would know her anywhere. It could be no-one else. Buffy Summers, the Slayer, was sitting right in front of him, alive. He had just torn her from her coffin. He couldn’t stop himself from staring, taking in every line of a form he had thought never to see again. She was alive. He let out a delayed choke of surprise and her head snapped up, wide eyes meeting his. She looked ready to flee but he held up his hand in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

“It’s… it’s okay.”

Her eyes searched his helplessly but if she understood what he had said, there was no sign of recognition in her expression.

“You’re alive, Buffy.”

The words, once said, sent a frisson through his body.

“You’re alive,” he repeated in a voice tight with emotion, meeting her confused gaze with one almost blinded with tears.

The look of confusion remained in her eyes and it drew him momentarily from his own daze.

“It’s alright, love,” he soothed, reached out towards her hesitantly.

She eyed his hand warily and leaned back, but much to his relief, she didn’t shrink away when he placed his hand on her shoulder. The feel of her very real shoulder under his fingers threatened to shake his momentary control but he shook his head and rose to his feet, beckoning her to follow him. She did so uncertainly and he smiled softly.

“I’ll look after you, love. Don’t worry.”

Her eyes fixed on his, uncertainty and confusion plain in her expression, but when he turned, she fell in beside him almost naturally.

“Get you home, where you belong,” he whispered, glancing at her and then forcing his eyes back to the path in front of him. If he stopped to really take her in, he wouldn’t be any use anymore. He would deal with the shock later but right now, Buffy needed him.