[A/N: Here’s the second part of this, from a different point in time and a different point of view, but grief knows no boundaries, takes no prisoners. . . And barely leaves survivors. This song is from Dido’s debut album and it struck me that perhaps, it applies to this situation. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing.]

Leave Your Lights On

2. His

My lover's gone,
his boots no longer by my door,
he left at dawn,
and as I slept I felt him go
Returns no more,
I will not watch the ocean,
my lover's gone,
no earthly ships will ever
Bring him home again,
bring him home again
My lover's gone,
I know that kiss will be my last,
no more his song,
the tune upon his lips has passed
I sing alone,
while I watch the ocean,
my lover's gone,
no earthly ships will ever
Bring him home again,
bring him home again
Dido, My Lover’s Gone




She doesn’t count the first time – well, really, it was the second time, since he was of the undead. No, Sunnydale collapsing doesn’t count.

Because he didn’t . . . well, he did, but he’d come back. Just not to her.

The fact was he had been back – not whole, at least not at first, anyway. But he had been back.

So Los Angeles was a different story.

That counted.

Why, she’s not really certain. Perhaps, because in the time since Sunnydale she’s had time to grow up. . . . Time to realize what it was between them. Time to understand how much he really, truly had meant to her.

Time was something she had far too much of now.

Without him.

She realizes now, what it was with The Immortal. He was Riley in reverse. . . . Just a poor substitute for whom. . . . And what she really needed.

But he’s gone and she has no mementos . . . nothing but her own memories.

His touch, his voice . . . all colored now with rosy lenses, whitewashed clean of their violence.

Rome, like The Immortal, was now behind her, instead, after learning about the coming battle in Los Angeles, she’d packed up everything, shipping her things, and Dawn, off to London.

She’d arrived too late – Angel’s crew decimated, the slayers living in the States battling valiantly to get to the badly injured vampire.

He survived, though there was no trace of Spike – no duster, no dust . . . no nothing.

No witness. . . . And for days she held out hope, scouring alleys and sewers, searching for something. . . . Any trace of him.

There’d been no sign.

Buffy ran her fingers over the top of his television, eyes on the door. A sigh broke through her and she made no effort to wipe away her tears.

Almost time. . . .

Ten days into her search, Angel had come looking for her – determined to make excuses, to convince her the search was foolish – which she had ignored.

Four days later, she moved into his old apartment, desperate for some connection to him. God Spike, this is worse than the crypt . . . there’s nothing of you here . . . except your clothes.

Damn you, Spike. . . . Damn you for not believing. . . . For not trusting. A soft sigh broke from her. Not that I gave you much to trust.

Buffy stared at the bed she’d been sharing with a ghost – unable to remember moving from living room to bedroom.

Dawn and Giles had arrived a month into her quest, full of false mourning and unspoken regret. Her sister, in a rare moment of sharing, told Buffy about Spike’s nightly ritual and she seized upon it like a lifeline.

Two weeks later, they were gone, back to England . . . and she was alone again. . . .

Waiting.

Praying.

She wasn’t sure about how ironic it was, but she knew it was odd, heaven’s chosen one praying for a vampire. . . .

She wished, more than once, for some place of his, other than this dreary apartment – where she could set his candle nightly.

For some reason an anonymous dark, dirty alleyway wasn’t good enough.

Neither was his apartment.

It wasn’t until she’d been lighting his candle for a month that she’d found it.

She’d been chasing some demon, and it disappeared into a garden and Buffy had stopped in her tracks.

Something about the place – the sudden serenity of it all called to something deep inside her – it was a sanctuary.

Instead of chasing after the demon, she retraced her steps, grabbing his lantern.

Every night since then, she’d snuck in, ducking behind the last visitors or blending in with wedding guests, winding her way through the deserted paths.

Most nights, the lantern was left by the waterfalls – those were the nights she sat quietly, contemplating her past.

Other nights – the hard ones – his candle flickered amid the tall pines, casting feeble shadows.

Those were the nights she cried.

He was gone – no prayers, no pleas to the Powers – to heaven or a god she wasn’t sure existed – would change that.

He deserved peace – his last few years had been nothing short of chaotic – and there were whole days when she believed it was what he’d gotten.

But a bigger part of her knew better.

He may have twice died a champion . . . had it been enough to wash away his sins?

Did giving his life to save the world absolve him?

Buffy hoped so – almost more than she wished him back.

Time to go . . .

In one hand she scooped up the lantern and a candle, heading straight for the door. The memory of the night they’d gotten drunk in his crypt – well, she had anyway – surfaced, and a sad smile crept across her face. That had been a good night – before the madness between them had grown.

Another night’s memory flashed and Buffy fought the wave of grief rising in her belly.

Finding him, bare chested and wounded, in that abandoned church . . .

Wiping away the tears, Buffy leaned hard against the door, unable to go on.

I don’t. . . . I’m still not ready for you to not be here . . .

A sob caught in her throat and her head banged softly against the door. The lantern clattered, bringing her thoughts back to the moment.

Time to go . . .

Time – now that she had all this time – the one person she wanted to spend it with was gone. . . .

How the hell am I supposed to go on?

There was no one she could confide in, no one who would even understand – or grieve with her. She’d never told her sister all that transpired between her and Spike – some things she couldn’t bear to admit except to him. Explaining to Willow – Buffy shook her head.

Not going there. . . . All that’s water from the bridge.

Every single one of them had tried, in the past few months, to intervene. To make her see reason . . . that what she was doing was foolish and silly and all sorts of other words that did nothing but belittle what she had shared with him.

Not that she could explain it to any of them anyway. To them, he was nothing more than a reformed demon, someone unnecessary, dispensable, someone not to be mourned or missed.

Buffy knew differently.

He had been her rock when every single one of them had failed her. Been her support when he barely understood what it meant. Stood by her when she – souled champion of good – beat him nearly to death, left him to face the sunrise in an alleyway and still, weeks later, said he loved her.

Professed it, proved it, lived and breathed it time and again.

He’d saved her, more times than she cared to admit. And for a while, all she’d done was throw his devotion back in his face, decrying his lack of soul as a hindrance to anything real existing between them.

And all the while she’d known, in her heart, what was the truth.

Truth it had taken her years to admit. Truth she’d barely been able to admit to herself and only to him when it was almost too late.

Truth she couldn’t bring herself – still – to admit to her friends.

Her behavior that year from hell had bordered on . . . Buffy shied away from comparisons. That was then and you’ve made your amends for what you did. He forgave you . . . you need to forgive yourself.

Pushing herself away from the door, Buffy shook off the tears. It was a long way to Descanso Gardens, and she needed to move faster if she was going to make it in before closing.

Her fist closed reflexively around the candle, bruising it in her grip, the heat from her hand releasing some of the scent. The familiar aroma of vanilla mixed with other scents drifted up to her nose and another wistful smile crossed her face. Trying to find a candle that smelled of leather and whiskey had proved more than futile, some merchants looking at her crosswise. She’d thought briefly about going to the demons to find someone to make her that particular blend and decided against it.

Besides, he’d loved the smell of vanilla . . .

Almost every candle he’d stolen for them had been vanilla scented.

She made it as far as the car before her knees started wobbling and her belly clenched with repressed tears. Not gonna be a good night at all . . .

Tonight, she knew, would be a night for the pines.

It made sense, since today had been a milestone she hadn’t wanted to pass – it was the anniversary. . . . The same day they’d knocked the house down, writhing and rutting like the two supercharged beings they were. She never told him, never admitted it, but he was the best she’d ever been with. He’d ruined her for anyone else’s touch.

Damn vampire. . . .

At that thought, a real smile broke over her lips and Buffy shook her head, snorting a little. He knew it too, even called her on it when she denied it – he knew her so damn well.

Sex with Spike was worth remembering every damn day – only thing wrong with it, was that she couldn’t keep doing it.

Truth, Buffy Anne Summers, is not something you like facing.

He’d known it though, forcing her to face the truth.

Only problem was – as she saw it – when she finally admitted it out loud, it was too late. He’d thrown it back in her face, denied her the . . . grace? What was the word for it anyway?

Stuck at a traffic light, in a car he must have taken from Wolfram & Hart, Buffy once more gave into the tears.

Her thoughts were all jumbled, unable to focus on any one thing, circling round like frenzied bees.

Somehow she made it to the gardens, just as a wedding reception was commencing. Easy enough to slip in amongst the chaos of guests and catering staff. Maybe I can steal a bottle of whisky for him. He’d appreciate that.

A wry, wistful smile played over her lips and Buffy moved through the milling guests.

Cigarette smoke drifted past her nose, stopping Buffy in her tracks. . . . No. . . . oh god . . . how I wish. . . . What I’d give to see him smirking at me again. To hear him say my name, just one more time. . . .

No English accented voice broke her reverie, only the nasal twang of a native Californian. Shaking off her dreams, Buffy slid past the kitchen staff, grabbing a bottle of something brownish colored, with an expensive looking label and headed directly for the pines.

Winter was coming, Thanksgiving not that far off and she made a noise somewhere between a sob and a giggle remembering the first holiday she’d spent with Spike. His expression had been priceless when the mystical bear appeared.

Day one hundred forty eight had come and gone, Buffy unconsciously clinging to the magical number like a lifeline, starting at shadows and half expecting him to turn up at any given moment.

But he hadn’t.

The letdown had been horrible. Every hope she had, had been pinned on that day. Just knowing if he was going to return to her – it would be on that day.

But he hadn’t.

Tears had been her constant companion for days afterward, until a numb sort of calm overtook her.

Why didn’t you come back . . . It was the perfect day . . . or it would have been. Damn stubborn vampire. . . . Couldn’t give in and come back, could you. . . .

Why didn’t you believe me?

It’s almost one hundred sixty days, Spike . . .

Too many days without him. Buffy looked around, trying to find the best spot – a spot for tonight. A soft rustling breeze blew through the pines, ruffling her hair, almost caressing her. New tears started to fall, and she stopped walking, listening to the wind and the steady thump of her heart.

Two phone calls had come today, both of which she’d ignored. Giles had left a terse, concise voicemail, requesting her presence in England – and his displeasure about her decision to remain in Los Angeles was still very clear.

Willow’s message had been less terse, but no less judgmental. To Buffy’s way of thinking – the group plan to spend Thanksgiving in London was nothing more than a ploy to get her away from what they saw as destructive, self-indulgent behavior – fueled no doubt, by Angel’s reports of her repeated refusals to see him.

She avoided him at every turn, refusing his calls, telling him to go away through closed doors, laughing when he’d tried using his key to get into the apartment. Apparently, whatever mystical force governed vampire entry into private dwellings blocked him from entering. The look on his face after he’d bounced against the barrier had been enough to make her cheer – until the reality of that set in.

It was her home now.

Not just his . . .

She didn’t want to think about what that implied.

I’m not ready to let you go . . .

Not ready for you to not be here. . . .

It’s so hard to remember when he wasn’t a part of her life. . . .

Hard to remember before she was called.

So many of her memories of Sunnydale were laced with his image – his smirk and swagger, his fists and fangs – so much of her life was spiced with him. . . .

Buffy closed her eyes, drawing in the peaceful calming scents and atmosphere of her surroundings. Her feet moved, following her out-flung senses, trusting her instincts to lead her to the right spot.

Twenty-eight steps later, Buffy opened her eyes, gasping at the sight in front of her. Two small pines stood opposite a single sapling, just beginning its stretch toward the sky, all of which were intertwined with ivy and honeysuckle.

The sight of it was enough to pause her tears.

Moving forward almost mechanically, Buffy placed the lantern midway between the small trees, brushing away the pine needles. On her knees, she placed the iron and glass contraption just so, so that the dragon etched in the glass faced her. Dawn hadn’t remembered what her lantern had looked like, so instead Buffy had followed her instincts and bought one that reminded her of him. A snarling dragon motif in scrolled iron laid over the frosted glass, talons stretched and fangs showing. It was he, invulnerable yet with a soft underbelly – as long as you knew where his heart was.

Yup, that’s my Spike.

Buffy refused to think of him in the past tense – he was always either just gone somewhere or on his way back from some place else. Anywhere. The real truth was too hard to face, so she lived in denial, clinging to the slim hope – the only hope – she had.

No one had seen him fall, not any of Angel’s people, not any of the Slayers. And the strange blue demon-king inside Fred’s body spoke in riddles no one understood, although she was also, like Buffy, strangely insistent on Spike’s non-dusty state. Illyria’s freakish determined belief Spike was not dust was sometimes the only thing keeping Buffy from complete breakdown.

She fumbled with the lighter, her fingers still unfamiliar with its use, even after all this time. The silver casing was slick from her sweaty hands and Buffy had to stop and wipe her palm on her jeans, a memory of that day she’d lied to him about his lighter passing through her mind. Cutting her hair because he called her goldilocks as he’d said he loved her hair had been incredibly childish.

Her hair was long again, as blond as it had ever been, and she was perversely not going to cut it because he’d liked it this way.

It was silly, and she knew it; but there were hundreds – okay, dozens – of things she wished she could do over again. How come no crazy time demon or time traveling witch is after me when I want it to be? Coz, Summers, you don’t always get what you want. Wah. And I know I’m not on the Hellmouth coz all these crazy wishes would so be backfiring on me.

Maybe, if she’d been able to talk to Willow, or Giles, or someone who could help her figure out what had happened to Spike and where he was, she’d be okay. But the only one who even thought positively about Spike was Illyria. . . . And Buffy didn’t know if the old one could help. Despite her claim to untold powers and control over dimensions, Illyria could no longer access any but the most simple of magics.

Not enough to help Buffy.

Not that she was even around to question.

Which was why every night Buffy lit the magic candle. Because maybe. . . . Just maybe, love would work again in their favor.

Maybe love would be enough.

Oh Spike – wherever you are – I hope you know it. I do love you.

And I probably always will.

Finally getting the candle lit, Buffy gently closed the latch, sliding the lock home.

Unnoticed tears slid slowly down her cheeks, pooling into the honeysuckle and ivy beneath her.

Rest in peace . . .

No!

Damn you, you stupid vampire.

Come back.

Just come back to me. . . .







Please let me know what you think.