Epilogue: Dreams and Paper

Buffy gasped and sat up from where she’d been lying, moments before, on the floor. With each steadying breath, the room came into focus, the blurry edges of her vision sharpening. She was in a large office, it seemed, with bright sunshine pouring into the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I should be dead, she thought, closing her eyes and opening them. But when they reopened, she was still in the middle of the office, and voices were suddenly clamoring in her ears.

“Buffy!” She looked up, squinting in the bright light to see Angel, shock etched across his face. It took a moment to register the fact that he was bathed in light, and the next moment she was on her feet, lunging towards him.

But instead of knocking him into the shadows and out of the sun, she wound up passing through him.

“What the-?” Before she could finish her sentence, there was a loud rushing sound in her ears, and she turned to see a form coalescing from a cloud of black ash. As it took shape, she recognized the figure in the black duster and combat boots. “Spike?”

*******

Buffy opened her eyes with a short intake of breath. She lay facedown on the soft mattress, her face pressed into the warm flesh of her arm. When she’d caught her breath, finally, she let the faint memory of her recent dream return.

They were incredibly vivid, the dreams she’d had continuously over the last year since Sunnydale disappeared into the earth. Whenever she closed her eyes nowadays his face appeared, and she lived for the moments that had never happened between them, that she experienced only in dreams.

As she thought of her latest dream – an alternative ending to the final battle with the First – she turned over to dig through the bedside table and extract the thick notebooks. Most of the pages were covered in unintelligible writing; rushed characters strewn together in the drowsy moments after waking, when the dreams were clearest in her mind. There were various second-rate sketches as well, of scenes such as her slung up in his arms wearing a poofy white wedding dress.

She clicked the ballpoint pen repetitively as she formed the words in her head before laying them down to paper.

*******

Spike shuddered violently into waking and immediately felt the tears well in his eyes.

The image of Buffy was still emblazoned in his mind, and he instinctively reached for the spiral notebook next to the bed. Without thinking of the lines and shadows he drew, the picture took form beneath the soft lead pencil. The sketched lines grew in form and figure until he was looking down at an exact reproduction of his latest dream – Buffy’s face pressed into his shoulder as they burned together, his face pressed to her flowing hair.

Sighing, he threw the notebook down, and it closed on the floor. He looked around the grimy apartment and thought of her once again, and of the dreams that haunted him night after night – visions of what could have been, and what could still be.

What could still be.

Bloody hell, he thought to himself as he slipped into his duster. It could still be. Digging through his pocket he found the cheap Nextel phone Angel had begrudgingly given him when he moved out of the Wolfram and Hart offices.

It was time to cash in on a favor.

*******

Scotland wasn’t California, and it took some time to get used to. Buffy pulled the wool jacket tighter against her small frame, as if the fuzzy material could protect her from the bitter breeze that rushed down and up the sloping hills surrounding their castle. Below her in the valley hundreds of Slayers were training, sparring and practicing with wooden swords. From above, they were hundred of tiny figures swaying back and forth in rhythm.

The thwapthwapthwap of helicopter blades slicing the air stirred her from her contemplative reverie, and she tilted her face upwards, squinting against the pale sun and gusts of wind. A black helicopter hovered in the air above her, as if contemplating its landing. After another moment of indecision, it tilted away from her and made its way lazily towards the castle.

Buffy watched it for a moment as it dipped down below the high courtyard walls of the castle before moving downhill towards it.

*******

He grumbled impatiently from beneath his protective blanket as the copter hovered in the air. The plane ride had been easy, since he’d been allowed to bask in the sunlit lounge without fear of frying. But the helicopter was a different story; while still belonging to Wolfram and Hart, the open cockpit made it impossible for the specially tinted windows to protect him.

“Get a move on it!” he growled to the pilot. The young airman turned a grinning face to Spike, his chin nearly hooking over his shoulder as he waved at the vampire huddled in the back of the helicopter.

“She’s beautiful, aye?” he asked, and Spike glowered. He couldn’t see much of the castle, only the pilot and the floor.

“Land this damn thing!” he shouted irritably. He heard the pilot’s long laugh as it echoed in his ears above the chopper blades, before the entire flying machine tilted forwards and continued its sojourn into the Scottish countryside.

*******

“You wanna do what?” Angel growled, his fists clenching the office chair. Spike shrugged nonchalantly, flicking his lit cigarette onto the floor, even though there was an ashtray within arms reach.

“Take a vacation. Get out of bloody America.”

“So you can go back to her. Don’t think I haven’t figured you out, Spike. She doesn’t want you.”

Spike exhaled deeply, blowing a stream of smoke directly into Angel’s face.

“I know,” he answered sadly. “Which is why I need to leave.” Spike stood, ground the cigarette into the ashtray. “There’s too many bad memories around here, too many sad bloody dreams. Just gotta get out again. Get my rocks back.”

“I swear to God, Spike, if I hear you’re killing again, I’ll -” but he was cut off when Spike snarled into his face.

“Don’t lay that on me,” he ground out, barely restraining himself. Angel leaned away from him, intimidated by Spike’s confrontational glare. “I’ve got a soul, mate, same as you. And I wasn’t cursed, either. I won it. For her.”

Without another word, Spike spun out of the office. He didn’t need to hear the answer from Angel – he would get to her, and Angel would give him the help he needed, even if he didn’t know Spike’s true intentions.

*******

Xander Harris was the first to arrive in the courtyard. He stood in his commanding stance; legs spread, hands locked behind his back, watching as the helicopter descended into the shadowed courtyard. The high walls blocked a good portion of the sunlight, and the sky offered only a darkening blue hue. He grimaced as he saw the ‘WR&H’ emblazoned on the tail of the aircraft. It could only mean one thing: Angel.

But the figure that stepped out from beneath the coarse brown blanket wasn’t Angel. No, this vampire was slighter and with bleach-blonde hair. This vampire wore a floor length duster; a trophy from a dead Slayer.

“Spike.” Despite Xander’s deep-seated hatred for the peroxide menace, he stepped forward and held out a hand – a gesture that was met with a raised eyebrow. Xander met the vampire eye-to-eyes and gripped his hand firmly. “We thought you were dead.”

“Yeah,” the vampire answered, his eyes darting around at the unfamiliar faces that surrounded him. “Was that, for a bit.”

“I’m not surprised. Nobody stays dead for long around here.”

Spike squinted his eyes at Xander, looked him up and down and them shook his head. Fixing Xander with a penetrating gaze, he grunted.

“When did you become so civil, Harris?”

“Since I stepped up to lead five hundred teenage girls against the forces of evil. And since I had to make deals with people and demons I didn’t particularly like.”

“You won’t stop me from seeing her Harris. You can’t.”

“Never said I would.”

It was creepy, the way in which Xander led Spike into the castle. They ventured far into the middle of the great house and into a cozy, windowless parlor. Spike slumped into a chair, and Xander grabbed two beers from a hidden wet bar. Popping the tops, he handed one to Spike.

“How’d you find her?” Xander began, initiating the conversation.

“Angel’s demon lawyers – they know everything.”

Xander grimaced – there were obviously some kinks in the security that had to be fixed -especially if Angel’s evil law firm had tabs on them.

“How long have you been back?”

“Coupla months. Was incorporeal at first, couldn’t have reached her if I wanted.”

Xander nodded, taking a swig of his drink. As he set it on the table he also rose and moved towards the door. “She’s here.”

*******

“Tell Xander I’m on my way in,” Buffy told the girl as she entered the castle. The girl immediately rushed off to give the message. Xander’s secretary would then discreetly tell him via the miniscule speaker in his ear that the head Slayer was on her way.

Curiosity nagged at her as she wended her way through the ancient walls of the Edinburgh castle, the cold driving through to her bones. She shivered, pulling the jacket tighter. Who could it be, flying in on an expensive, private helicopter? The dread that had settled in her stomach told her it was Angel.

But when she reached the heavy wooden door, and when it swung open on newly-oiled hinges, and when her eyes first rested on Xander’s current drinking partner, and when said drinking partner stood and offered a shy smile the dread dissipated, to be replaced by an impossibly giddy wonder and excitement.

“Spike?”


*******

He had dreamt of this moment since being brought back a year ago in Angel’s Wolfram and Hart executive office. He’d dreamt of her arms around him, her mouth to his ear, whispering a thousand I love you’s. Images of him sweeping her against him, holding her close, stealing her away had haunted him. And now, now that they were finally face to face, his feet wouldn’t move and his arms didn’t stretch out by any volition to grab her close.

*******


It clicked into place as something she’d known all along. Night after night had been filled with this very thing – some seemingly improbable reunion, filled with protestations of love and her throwing herself into his arms. Of course he would return to her – nobody stayed dead for very long. But when she finally came face to face with him after a year, she couldn’t move a muscle.

Xander was standing between them, having stepped back as Buffy entered the room, and his one good eye flickered between Slayer and Vampire, waiting for the kissfest to begin. The fact that it didn’t immediately happen disconcerted him a bit, and he waved a hand before Buffy’s glossy eyes.

“Hey Buff?” he called, trying to shake her from her reverie. “Spike’s alive, if you didn’t notice. Well, not really alive, but -”

“Spike,” Buffy repeated, cutting Xander off. It had been so long since she’d said Spike’s name to anyone that she simply wished she could say nothing but that ever again.

SpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpikeSpike.

“Buffy,” he replied with a burgeoning grin; one that started at the corner of his mouth and slowly grew until his smile nearly consumed his face.

And then came the rushing, as everything crashed down upon her and rolled off her shoulders; the reality of him being alive, and coming for her, and still loving her and being in the exact same room as her… it was overwhelming. Her feet moved on their own toward him, her arms reaching out in a desperate embrace.

With the sturdy tower of his body pressed against her, she finally allowed herself to breathe and inhale the familiar scent of his duster. His mouth was buried in the hot crook of her neck, arms running across her body as he rememorized every inch of her.

*******

Buffy’s head rose from Spike’s bare shoulder to smile sleepily at him. They were nestled in the warmth of her bed, a fire happily crackling in the grate and the windows drawn shut against the bitter winter cold.

“I still can’t believe you’re really here with me,” she whispered softly, her eyes catching his. “It’s like I’m gonna wake up any moment, and the only things I’ll have to remember you by are dreams.”

“Feels the same,” he admitted, pressing his lips to the palm of her hand. “Dreams and paper.”

“I dreamt of you, every night.” His eyes widened slightly as the words passed her lips. “I’d wake up in my bed, alone, and try so hard to remember those dreams. I wrote some of them down.” She turned away to shuffle through the drawer next to her bed. When she returned to his embrace he noted the heavy notebook in her hand. She fingered through the pages, displaying a heavy handed script that was obviously written while ridding herself of the last vestiges of sleep.

As she thumbed through them, the lined pages flashing by, a certain sketch caught his attention and his hand shot out to seize the page. She looked up inquisitively, wondering why he stopped at that page. It was of one of the last dreams, and depicted a shoddy recreation of Spike burning beneath the Hellmouth, his arms clasped tightly around her.

“Sometimes I drew,” she explained. “Sometimes the dream would leave me with just that – a picture.”

“I know,” he whispered. The sketch was an exact replica of the one he’d drawn halfway around the world, when he first decided to seek her out. “You stayed with me then. You stayed and you burned because I knew you loved me.”

Her surprise was caught in her throat, and her mouth formed silent words. Feeling like a fool, she clamped her mouth shut and looked back down at the sketch.

“That’s… impossible.”

“Improbable, luv,” he corrected. “Never impossible.”

Buffy grinned, looking back down at the sketch. It was a mess, the two figures hardly recognizable as Buffy and Spike, and she shut the notebook and flung it away.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she told him seriously. “Because the real you’s here now, and that’s all that counts.”

“Too right, luv,” he crooned into her ear as he crawled over her body to nestle between her bare thighs. “I love you.”

Buffy reached up, retracing the familiar features she’d missed so much over the past year. “I love you, too.” He watched her for a moment, his crystal clear gaze piercing through and searching her soul.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You do.”

End.