[A/N: This was only supposed to be two chapters, but because I can’t resist the plea of a sometimes good minion, I wrote this one. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing.]

3. Theirs

Upon a darkened night
the flame of love was burning in my breast
And by a lantern bright
I fled my house while all in quiet rest

Shrouded by the night
And by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead

Oh night thou was my guide
of night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other

Upon that misty night
in secrecy, beyond such mortal sight
Without a guide or light
than that which burned so deeply in my heart
That fire t'was led me on
and shone more bright than of the midday sun
To where he waited still
it was a place where no one else could come

Oh night thou was my guide
of night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other

Within my pounding heart
which kept itself entirely for him
He fell into his sleep
beneath the cedars all my love I gave
From o'er the fortress walls
the wind would his hair against his brow
And with its smoothest hand
caressed my every sense it would allow


Oh night thou was my guide
of night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other

I lost myself to him
and laid my face upon my lover's breast
And care and grief grew dim
as in the morning's mist became the light
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
there they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
there they dimmed amongst the lilies fair

The Dark Night of the Soul
Words by St. John of the Cross;
Music, lyrics arranged and adapted by Loreena McKennitt






Hours later, after a long time spent patrolling, Buffy headed back to the Gardens, intent on retrieving his lantern. She searched for two hours, looking for the small copse, stumbling wearily through the pines. Patrol, since Angel’s battle with the Senior Partners of Wolfram & Hart, had been mostly a bust, until recently. Since the season change into fall, demon activity had increased, although it was nowhere near normal levels. Buffy wasn’t sure if it was because of the location or the aftermath of the battle. Somehow the reason wasn’t really all that important. Her frustration grew the longer it remained hidden and once more Buffy fought back tears.

No, please. . . . it’s the only thing I have left.

The only thing.

Except for his clothing and what little he’d managed to accumulate in the time he’d been back in Los Angeles, there was nothing else. And strangely, Buffy didn’t consider any of those things really his.

I have to find it.

Desperation grew, until finally, Buffy stopped moving, letting the desolation wash through her. I can’t lose that. . . . please, if you’re playing with me, please just let me have it back.

Her eyes closed and she swayed a bit on her feet, fatigue worsening the effects of her desperate grief. Slow tears slid from her eyes, rolling down her flushed cheeks. Her hands almost automatically clenched into fists, but there was no enemy she could fight, nothing to rage against. Only her grief.

Fighting to regain some control over her erratic heartbeat and shallow breathing, she counted to ten, then found herself counting off the number of times they’d had sex. A watery giggle broke through the tears and she caught herself from guffawing out loud. Why the hell am I counting that. . . . And that night in the abandoned house – does that count as once for the whole night or do I count every single time we orgasmed?

Inhaling deeply, she fought back the waves of exhausted hilarity, realizing it was her nerves strung tight and the fatigue causing the ridiculous thoughts coursing through her head. Shaking away the cobwebs, Buffy slowly opened her eyes and recognized her surroundings. The little trees were off to her left, the light somehow still burning brightly in the lantern.

Her mind blank, she followed her feet toward the flickering light, slight surprise running through her. Flopping gracefully onto the soft undergrowth, Buffy focused on the lantern. Lifting a hand, she stripped the scrunchie from her hair, letting the blond strands loose. A soft breeze rose up, bringing the faint smell of roses and something else she couldn’t place to her nose. Shaking her head, Buffy let her mind drift, wondering how she could avoid traveling to London for Thanksgiving, and avoiding all the lectures she knew were coming.

Shadows closed around her, as the candlelight wavered.

One more night without you. . . .

How many had it been now? Exactly one hundred fifty-seven.

Plus the whole year before.

No. That doesn’t count. . . . . .

And still it was time we weren’t together.

Regrets for holding back while they were together in Sunnydale raced through her. She’d been so focused on surviving and talking about them after that she hadn’t once thought – it hadn’t ever crossed her mind that maybe they both wouldn’t make it. Too many should haves, would haves and could haves raced through her head, and Buffy realized, she never ever should have kissed Angel that night. What a huge mistake that was. . . . .

That action alone was probably the one he remembered when she finally found the courage to say the words. Stupid Buffy. . . . Stupid, stupid.

It had only made him doubt her words even more, down in that pit. If she could go back, change only one thing from those last days – kissing Angel would be top of the list. What a huge mistake that turned out to be. A reflex, that’s all it had been. Homage to something that wasn’t real, not in hindsight.

First love. Nothing more. First love is based not in reality, but in cotton candy fluff and that was all she and Angel had shared. Unreality. Dreams and castles in the sky.

Real love wasn’t like that. It was day-in and day-out sharing, standing shoulder to shoulder with your partner. Sharing everything.

Like Spike had said more than once – love wasn’t brains, it was blood and bones, tears and aching. It was hate and passion.

It was real.

It was seeing the real ugliness in each other and still having your heart thump or your belly drop or your throat close whenever thoughts of the other crossed your mind.

Love didn’t die because you weren’t together.

She’d come back from the grave to find Spike more in love than before. . . . And he was going to come back to her to find the same thing. He might not have been in the grave, and really, don’t much care where he’s been as long as it wasn’t some hell dimension. But wherever he was, Buffy was going to convince him of her feelings.

The candle was starting to gutter and Buffy finally realized how late it was. She really didn’t want to add another stripe to the calendar. . . . .

Her phone vibrated at her hip and for a brief second she panicked, believing nothing but news of the worst kind couldn’t wait at three in the morning. And then Buffy remembered her family lived half a world away and disregarded time differences all the time.

Flipping open the phone, she grimaced. Giles – or Dawn – either one wanting to talk, to convince her to give up the foolishness and go back to London. Buffy stared down at the device in her hand, exasperation surging, coupled with anger. Maybe Giles wouldn’t understand – or refused to anyway, but Dawn. . . . She should know better. Her younger sister had loved Spike – and then because of Xander’s loose lips, that love had turned to hatred.

Nope. Not answering the phone.

Decisively turning it off, Buffy stared at the waning candlelight.

How can I expect them to understand. . . when I’m not really sure I do. Yeah, I’m here. . . hoping, wishing, praying for you to come back. . . Is this what you did for me?

Did you light all those candles, hoping I’d come back? Or were you hoping I was at peace?

I wish I knew which I want more. . . .

Do I want you to be at peace . . . .

Or would I rather have you back?

Buffy dropped her head into her hands, fighting fresh tears. Grief was a constant with her, a gut-filling ball of regret she carried al the time, even in sleep.

Sometimes, while she slept, she relived those last days in Sunnydale, unable to change any part of them, doomed to watch herself remain closed off from him. Other dreams were filled with the distant past – all the many moments between them replaying over and over like some television rerun of her life in constant loop.

Twenty-three years old, almost twenty-four and . . . . some nights I feel like I’m ancient. Was this how it felt for you?

Nine years a Slayer. . . .

So much for the normal life.

Normal had flown out the door the moment she’d become a Slayer, only she’d been too slow and stubborn to accept it.

At least now she knew normal wasn’t what she wanted. Or needed.

No, what she needed and wanted was decidedly abnormal – even for vampires.

A wry smile, followed by a knowing chuckle, crossed her features. Yup. . . who knew the oldest living Slayer had a kink?

It’s so your fault, Spike.

Oh yeah, so your fault. . . . . .

He hadn’t let her hide behind the mask she’d carefully crafted following her first brush with heartbreak. If she had known then what was to come, Angel wouldn’t have been anything more than a speed bump. And Riley might not have ever gotten past the getting-to-know-you state. She certainly wouldn’t have wasted a year trying to fit into his ideal.

But would Spike and I been able to make it?

Definitely without her Angel baggage she wouldn’t have been so hung up on Spike’s lack of soul, which so wasn’t a point anymore anyway. So maybe yeah, without all the stuff she’d forced herself to believe, things with Spike would have been easier.

Spike had uncovered all her secrets, torn down all the walls she’d hidden behind, making her face the real her – fears and warts – everything.

Sighing deeply, Buffy wiped away her tears, then took a deep bolstering breath, settling her nerves and emotions.

Okay. . . . So need to get back to that dreary dumpy apartment.

Getting to her feet slowly, Buffy lifted her eyes up to the sky, feeling the effects of crying on her balance. Her ears and nose were all stuffed up, and she could feel how puffy her eyes were. She figured she looked a fright, what with the supposedly tear-proof mascara she’d taken to wearing not being so tear-proof and the exhaustion weighing down her muscles.

The exhaustion reminded her of all those nights she’d very nearly crawled home from Spike’s crypt, every muscle screaming with fatigue, stretched and used beyond her endurance. Looking back, she knew he’d been the only one to match her, step for step and if she’d been in a position to give him the crumb he’d once asked for, everything might have been different.

But regrets wouldn’t help.

Wouldn’t bring him back.

And yeah, that was something she’d wanted, especially if he wasn’t resting in peace.

With one last look at the small clearing, Buffy gripped the lantern, preparing to return to his lonely apartment.

It took her longer than expected to reach the parking lot and the sky, though still dark, was beginning to streak with morning stars. She wondered just how long she’d sat there, lost in thoughts of Spike and the past, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the gardens.

Halfway across the deserted parking lot, Buffy felt her spider senses go haywire and her eyes darted all around, though she never broke stride. The air around her moved strangely, thickening for a moment, the shadows seemed to coalesce into something solid, off to her left. Buffy’s step faltered and she slipped into a fighting stance. A stake appeared in her right hand, as she gently placed the lantern against a trash container. Hopefully this will keep it safe and out of danger.

Almost silent footsteps sounded against the pavement. Buffy faced the source of the noise squarely, automatically, unconsciously shifting into a fighting stance.

“Had I wanted to attack you, she-warrior, you would no longer be standing.” Illyria’s voice was devoid of emotion, yet there was the barest hint of irony, something Buffy liked to believe she learned from Spike.

She wanted to snark back, but such things were always lost on the once god-king, so Buffy bit back her retort. Instead she straightened back to her full height, eyeing the demon. “What brings you here?”

“You weep for what is lost. That is weakness.” The blue haired one cocked her head to the side, smelling the salty tears that were almost always present on the Slayer. “Grieving is a human emotion. Cease wallowing in the muck.”

“It’s not so easy for us Illyria. Grief. . . . isn’t something you can just turn off because someone says you should.” Buffy tucked the stake into her light jacket, then turned around to retrieve the lantern.

“The white haired one would not thank you for your emotions.” She fell into step beside the Slayer, her eyes focused on something Buffy couldn’t see.

“Maybe . . . . I dunno. I can’t stop. I miss him. . . more than I expected to.” Buffy opened the car door, placing the precious lantern on the floor, then peered across the car at Illyria. “You miss Wesley.”

Instead of looking again at Buffy, Illyria stared back into the gardens. For long moments it appeared she wasn’t going to answer Buffy’s statement, but then some soft noise, akin to a sigh, escaped from her and the demon turned to look at Buffy. Unnatural blue eyes met hazel green and suddenly it was no longer Illyria standing near her, but Fred and Buffy had to blink for a moment to make certain of her vision. “I do miss him. He was . . . . Wesley loved me and I think I was beginning to love him back.”

Just as suddenly, Fred was gone and those unnatural blue eyes were back. “I have no wish to feel those emotions again. I have helped you. It is for you to help me now.”

“What?” Buffy stared at the stiff lines of Illyria’s posture, misunderstanding her words. “You’re helping me by ordering me to stop grieving. Not really a help there.”

“My assistance is not of the kind you expected. We must return. It is time.” Stiffly she turned to look once more at Buffy. “We can use this transport or you can come with me now.”

“Where do you want to go? What’s this all about?” Illyria had moved around to the driver’s side of the car, where Buffy was standing with the back door opened, poised to close it.

“You will no longer need rituals.”

“Illyria, it’s late, I’m tired and . . It’s really late. Could you just be a bit clearer and explain what it is you want?” Buffy leaned against the car, watching the taller female and her stilted body language.

Instead of answering, Illyria grabbed her wrist and moved her away from the metal body of the car. One second they were standing in the parking lot of Descanso Gardens and the next they were outside Spike’s building. Almost no time had elapsed, because Buffy was still saying the words she’d started speaking when Illyria had grabbed her and the disorientation was enough to set Buffy rocking on her feet.

The first thing to cross her mind was the lantern and how long it would take her to get back across town to retrieve it. “I have to go back.”

“Rituals have no meanings. They are empty gestures made by humans to supplicate powers you cannot fathom. The deities do not deign to answer the entreaties of beings whose entire existence is an abomination.” She finally dropped Buffy’s arm, letting it fall between them.

“You weep for what was and for what might have been and yet do nothing in your power to alter what is.” Whirling gracefully to face the smaller woman, Illyria stalked closer, their faces bare inches apart. “I have done what no other would have done. You will assist me now. It is my command.”

Grumbling something about bossy demons, Buffy turned away from the building, intent on returning to the gardens to get the lantern and Spike’s car. Before she had taken half a step, Illyria was there, blocking her. Almost snake-like, Illyria was peering into Buffy’s eyes, her cool breath washing over the smaller woman’s face. “To return is foolish. Go inside.”

“Illyria. . . . I really need to get that lantern and the car. I can’t leave either of those things. I have to get them back.” Buffy moved to step around her and again she was blocked.

“For a warrior you are exceedingly sentimental. It is a downfall. Your weakness is the care you have for those around you.”

“It’s not a weakness, it’s my strength.” Spike always said it was her heart that kept her going, her capacity for love and she clung to it now, because it was the only thing she had left – his words. “I have nothing left of him Illyria. I need to go back.”

Once more, instead of answering Buffy, the blue-haired god gripped her wrist tightly. This time, Buffy was almost prepared for the abrupt transition and she didn’t react as badly. What had her confused though, was their location. They were in the hallway, leading down to the basement apartment and their positions had reversed. Buffy was facing toward the apartment door and before she had a chance to regain her balance, Illyria was stepping away, moving toward the wall.

“You are more stubborn than a human has a right to be. Do as I say.” Without waiting for Buffy to respond, Illyria pushed her toward the door, then strode to the short stairway. “I will await you where the other vampire sleeps.”

And with that, she was gone.

Wrought with frustration, coupled with extreme emotional upheaval, Buffy sunk to her knees with a half choked sob. Between missing Spike so much it felt like the ache in the middle of her chest wouldn’t ever ease, the fierce hold she had to keep on her temper with everyone else and now Illyria’s weirdness over . . . . well, just weirdness, Buffy couldn’t deal with it anymore. It all came tumbling down and she had the sinking, gut-wrenching feeling that he wasn’t ever coming back. Spike was lost to her. And she couldn’t live with that. Couldn’t admit to that . . . . She couldn’t face it back in Sunnydale, when he’d asked to leave and she couldn’t face it now.

I’m not ready. . . I’ll never be ready.

I wish you were here. . . . oh god, Spike. . . . I need you.

I love you.

I’ll always love you.

The tears fell, dripping down her face and her nose clogged; the remains of her mascara streaked over her flushed cheeks and Buffy didn’t care. She didn’t care how long she was crying on her knees in the dank hallway of a building in Los Angeles. . . . she only knew the one person in the whole world she wanted, the only one who might understand how she felt, wasn’t coming back. She didn’t care that the tingles signaling demonic presence started, nor did she want to know if what was coming down the hallway was going to squash her like a bug. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

Spike was gone.

No amount of tears was going to bring him back.

And that sucked beyond the thinking of it.

Buffy rested her head against the wall, her hands fisted in front of her, and finally, took a deep breath. The presence that had been walking down the stairs halted, then slowly came forward. Heavy feet stopped behind her and strong arms swooped down, lifting her off the floor. She didn’t fight, half believing the arms were there to comfort, not to harm.

She dared not open her eyes, because a sudden scent worked its way through the watery snot clogging her nose and Buffy thought perhaps she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. Cool hands brushed damp and tangled hair back from her face and a sob caught in her throat. The gesture was so reminiscent of Spike that she unconsciously curled into the hand brushing over her head.

There was no sound in the hallway, even time ceased as she curled into the arms holding her and Buffy fought the urge to open her eyes. If this wasn’t real, was just her mind playing tricks she didn’t want to know.

It was better to be in denial sometimes.

A soft rumble sounded from the chest behind her and Buffy moved closer. The silence stretched out, elongating the surreal moment. Neither she nor the person holding her moved, more than content to stay like this, wrapped in dark silence.

Finally, after long moments, Buffy dared to shift, her small fists unclenching and she dared to look down at the hands holding her close. White hands, bitten nails, long elegant fingers, whiter scars crisscrossing the backs, callouses ringing the tips of some fingers. Her eyes closed again, fighting the overwhelming urge to follow up from those hands. . . . those oh, so familiar hands. . . . . to find that what she was imagining wasn’t real.

She was just dreaming.

She had to be. . . This couldn’t be real.

She wasn’t this lucky.

“Suppose we could stand out here all night, pet, but what’s say we go inside and suss this out, yeah?”

And just like that, her illusions were all shattered.

Buffy’s eyes flew open despite her brain’s warning to stay closed, and she twisted, coming face to face with him.

His head was cocked to the side, his eyes looking tired and there were little lines around the corners that she didn’t remember ever seeing before. Despite the twinkle, there was wariness there, swirling around with a dampened emotion that she suddenly hoped was joy, and she grimaced because she knew she looked like hell and why couldn’t he have come back when she was all daisy-fresh?

A watery, almost hysterical giggle escaped from her, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from creeping up his arm to his biceps and pinching hard.

“Ow. What was that for?”

Another laugh, this one very breathless, gurgled up from her throat. “Just making sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Then you should be pinchin’ your own arm.”

“I guess. Had to make sure you weren’t an illusion either.”

A wry smirk formed on his lips and Spike nodded, murmuring, “Have to convince myself of the same thing.” He paused, his eyes roving over her features, focusing on the tear-tracks on her cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She looked at him like he had two heads, and Spike had the first inkling that something had changed. “Up until a couple of minutes ago, nothing was right.”

“Let’s go inside and talk.” He shifted her weight, one hand dipping into his pockets to retrieve a key, when Buffy produced one from hers. “You have a key?”

“Yeah, had one for a while now.”

Shaking his head, Spike walked the few steps to the door, not once relinquishing his hold on her, nor letting her get to her feet. Buffy slid the key easily into the lock, then looked up warily, waiting for the barrier to block him. Instead, Spike stepped without difficulty over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him. When he glanced down at her, the look on her face must have been telling, because he stopped walking.

With a visible gulp, Spike whispered out his question. “How long was I gone?”

As an answer, Buffy pointed to the calendar she had tacked on the wall, with the number of days written in the date boxes in red permanent marker and black stripes outlining all but the last one. Spike peered at it closer, then looked away. Feeling compelled to say the words anyway, in an echo of his when she’d come back from the grave, she whispered just as softly, “One hundred fifty-seven damned days.”

“That long.” He let his hands loosen their hold on her and Buffy had to find her feet. She wobbled for a bit, and his hand shot out to steady her. The next second, she had moved forward, her arms circling his waist, her face buried against his chest.

His arms full of Buffy, Spike tried to wrap his head around what had just happened to him. One moment he was in the alleyway, fighting with hordes of demons, Angel somewhere to his right, Illyria off wreaking havoc and the next, hundreds of baby Slayers were dropping down from the rooftops and swarming from behind them and then everything had gone wonky on him.

Spike held onto her, dropping his head to rest on top of hers, the heady scent of her shampoo tickling his senses. He groaned a little, then unconsciously rocked sideways, feeling her curves fit against him. A salty tang overlaid her scent and Spike knew she was crying, as she had been when he’d walked down the stairs. His own eyes swam with matching tears and for once he made no effort to stem them.

There were thousands of questions he wanted, needed answers to, but he couldn’t think of one that was important enough to break the silence they were sharing. Fatigue stole up on him though, and his legs gave out, and had it not been for Buffy holding him upright, Spike would have nearly collapsed where he was. Buffy felt him falter and she reacted swiftly, maneuvering them toward the couch.

“Are you okay?” She almost wrestled him down, then pulled back to really look at him. He was thinner than she remembered, his cheeks nearly sunken and there was a grey cast to his skin that told her more than words how starved he was. “When was the last time you remember eating?”

He shook his head, not really knowing the answer. “Not sure.”

“There’s some blood in the freezer. Might take a little while to defrost, but it won’t take that long right?” With her lower lip between her teeth, she looked all of twelve and he sunk back into the soft cushions behind him. Leaning back his head, Spike shrugged. Taking in his posture and the dust covering his clothing, Buffy pressed a kiss to his forehead as she got up.

He heard her moving around, her footsteps light, walking from the living room into the kitchen. There was no hesitation, no opening and closing cabinets in a search for things that she was unfamiliar with; and within moments, the microwave whirred to life. He relaxed, soaking in the scents, hers mixed with his. Within moments, he was asleep.

Buffy walked back into the living room, her eyes focused on his still body. One thought kept rolling around in her head, and though she had no idea how she’d managed to accomplish this miracle, Buffy was certain this was all because of Illyria.

Oh god. . . . he’s here. . . . he’s here.

So much for deities that no longer granted the prayers of humans.

A smile bloomed on her features and she went back to the microwave when it buzzed. Squeezing the blood packet in her hand, Buffy realized it was still mostly frozen, with a glance toward his still form, she had a second realization. Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t been heavenly and he was already asleep. She took the moment to stand there, staring at him.

Spike is back. He’s here. With me.

He’s back.

I’m so not letting him go again.

Putting the blood into a pot of warm water in the sink, Buffy moved back to him. Grabbing one of the pillows she situated it so he could lay down, then suited her thoughts to actions and lifted his legs so he was stretched out on the couch. He rolled to his side, the moment she finished removing his boots, his body curling in a bit. She thought about taking off the duster, then changed her mind. It would disturb him too much and she didn’t want that. He looked like he needed the sleep more than he needed to be comfortable.

Unable to stop herself, Buffy headed for the bedroom to quickly change into her pajamas. Snagging the blanket off the bed, she headed back for the living room and Spike. There was no way on earth she wasn’t going to curl up next to him, despite the fact the couch wouldn’t be comfortable. He was back and she wanted – needed – to be near him.

Slipping into the tiny spot in front of him, Buffy curled his arm around her waist, kissed his chin and closed her eyes.

Like him, she was asleep within seconds.


@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@


The warmth was what woke him. He was comfortable, surrounded by unaccustomed heat and almost surreal quiet. Spike slowly opened his eyes, uncertain of his surroundings; something floral and comforting tickled his nose and Spike immediately thought of Buffy. It took his eyes a few moments to refocus and once his brain caught up with his vision, Spike let out a deep sigh.

Not dreamin’. ‘s good then.

He shifted and the creak of the couch beneath him reached the slumbering girl in his arms. She stretched, head bumping against his chin gently. The arm he had wrapped around her lifted, brushing away loose strands of her hair.

There were no words coming to mind to explain – thinking he was really caught in a dream, Spike hugged her tighter, feeling Buffy’s arm tighten around his waist. She murmured something and it suddenly hit him – he wasn’t stuck in a dream. This was real.

A groan escaped him when Buffy’s hand dug into his side, squeezing his broken ribs. The noise woke her and for long moments she resisted looking at him, until he spoke.

“Thought it was a dream. Wakin’ up to you in m’arms.”

“If it is a dream, then we’re sharing it.” Buffy nuzzled into his chest, burrowing closer into his embrace. “So stop talking in case it wakes us up.”

A low rumbling laugh was her only answer and Buffy’s whole body reacted. Wriggling against him, she breathed out, “Missed that.”

Spike shifted and his muscles screamed in protest. Buffy looked up in time to catch the grimace cross his face and as much as she could, moved back, giving him room.

“You okay?”

“Not sure. Everythin’ hurts.” Feeling her eyes on him, Spike looked down to see her concern. “Been awhile since I could just rest like this. Could sleep for a week.”

“So go back to sleep.”

Unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice, he asked, “Will you still be here?”

A slight flush covered her cheeks and Buffy looked away, then back at him. “Well yeah, since I live here.”

“Oh.” Then as her actual words caught up with him, Spike’s mouth gaped open a bit. “What? You live here?”

“Yeah.” Buffy got up from the couch, unable to stay still. “Found out about this just. . . . Well, sort of as it was happening. Andrew finally told me and I got the stateside Slayers all moving.”

Her voice started to drift off, when she moved from the living room to the kitchen. He sat up slowly, nursing his broken ribs and sore legs. It was a couple of minutes before he could focus on her words, though he pretended to be listening when she came back in with warmed blood. “Here. Drink this. I’ve got more defrosting now.”

He gratefully took the mug, his eyes on her face once more. “Who made it?”

They both knew he wasn’t asking about the Slayers. “Just three. Illyria, Angel and now you.”

Spike drank in silence, unable to think of anything to say. They’d tried – followed Angel’s vision, and instead of beating the Senior Partners and the Black Thorne, all they’d done was manage to kill Wesley and Gunn. He finished the blood, absently swiping his finger around the inside, then licking it.

“Hungry?” Buffy’s voice held a hint of laughter.

“Yeah.” He held out the mug. “Need a shower.”

Spike walked past her, heading straight for the bathroom.



@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@


Buffy got more blood out of the freezer, putting it in to defrost, puttering around while he showered. When the shower began lasting longer than expected, Buffy laid down on the bed. Her mind was still numb, unable to think beyond his presence, the miracle of his return.

Yeah, he looked tired, exhausted, drained and he was quieter than she could ever remember him being, but he was whole. Pretty much in one piece. They could sort through the rest later, when he was feeling better. She wasn’t prepared for the sight of him when he walked into the bedroom; nor was he prepared for her to be resting on his bed.

“Oh my god. What the hell happened to you?”

His belly was concave; almost black bruises ringed the right side of his torso from his collarbone to below the towel he’d slung around his hips. The wounds on his legs were still raw and red, and his left arm looked like something had tried taking a bite out of it.

“Been fighting nasties. . . . An’ trying to find a way back.”

Leaping up from the bed, Buffy covered the distance between them before he finished speaking.

“Where were you?” At his blank look, she shook her head. “Never mind. It’s really not that important.”

She got him to the bed, waiting while he climbed under the covers. “I’ll be right back.”

He wasn’t asleep when she returned, though it was a near thing. Now that she cared to look harder, she was frightened by the changes. He’d aged, something vampires weren’t supposed to do. That fact alone scared her more than she wanted to admit. Spike opened his eyes when she sat on the edge of the bed. Before he could even thank her for the blood, she was talking quietly.

“I’m sorry. . . . for some of the. . . . If you had believed me, we wouldn’t have been apart last year.” When he started to speak, she rushed out, “Don’t say anything yet, just drink, okay?”

Buffy looked down at the blankets, picking at them. “I should never have kissed Angel. That was so wrong. And I understand, I guess, why you stayed away. Can you forgive me for that and maybe we could start all over again?”

Her voice trailed off and Spike had all he could do not to chuckle at her. That of all the things for her to focus on – it had been that kiss. Buffy was nothing if not adorably self-focused at times. He’d forgiven that moment a very long time ago. . . . Although, not by these standards.

“Pet, look at me. ‘M not up for long discussions yet, being bloody knackered an’ all. Just want you to know. . . . Was goin’ to find you, if I made it through that day. Was goin’ to let you know I was back, let you make up your own mind about things.”

He lapsed into silence then, feeling a buzz work through his muscles. Spike stared down at the mug, then raised his eyes to hers. “What’s this?”

Flushed roses bloomed on her cheeks and she didn’t answer him. Tears choked him for a minute and his voice was very hoarse when he asked a second time. “Buffy?”

“It’s mine. Been stockpiling it for months, just in case.”

“Why?” He was stunned, any other words beyond him.

“Because I want to. . . . needed to do something for you when you got back. “ A choked off cry escaped from her constricted throat and tears sprang to her eyes. Buffy looked at him squarely, her eyes not wavering from his. “I wanted you to know how I feel. I missed you so much.”

His fist clenched around the mug, knuckles whiter than before. “And how do you feel?”

She laughed, an almost hysterical sound grating on his ears. “Oh you dopey vampire. I love you.”

“Do you now?” He knew his voice wavered, he couldn’t help it, but he needed this spelled out. Needed clarity.

“Since before Sunnydale became a huge dust bowl.” Buffy wiped away a tear. “Was just too scared, or stupid or way too stubborn to admit it.”

A smile broke out on his face, though he quickly sobered. “What does that mean?”

She huffed, taking the empty mug out of his hand and putting it on the floor. “It means. . . I’m done. I’m not looking anymore. It means no more mooning about fairytales with Angel. Or regrets over not being normal with Riley. Or dancing until dawn with Mr. Wrong.” Buffy lifted the blankets and crawled under, resting her hand over his still heart.

“It means I finally sussed out what I want.”

Her lips met his, the kiss soft and sweet and so full of promise Spike figured it had to be real because it was so bizarrely strange, he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“It means I love you.”

Buffy rolled onto her back, tugging him close and held on while Spike unsuccessfully fought tears.