| Dear Spike by BuffyMeetsSpike |
| Chapter #1 - One-shot |
| Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Joss Whedon, not me. Alas, alack. Author’s Note: I am still working on Misplaced, but this one shot kept popping up like a whack-a-mole and wouldn’t go away until I wrote it down. So enjoy, until I get back to work on the other story. In this story, Buffy didn’t go to Rome, but rather stayed in England. Otherwise, more or less follows canon through Damage. ************************ “Would you stop playing with that thing and pay attention?” Angel snapped. A meeting was underway in Angel’s office, with Fred and Wesley going over some translations and Gunn and Lorne discussing the behavior of some questionable client. Spike on the other hand was deeply involved with a Gameboy, and the bleeping noise was starting to drive Angel up a wall. “I am paying attention,” Spike said, not looking up. “Doctor said it was good for the coordination after the surgery.” Truth be told, his coordination was completely back to normal at this point. But he found these little video games to be completely fascinating. He had never really paid them any mind before, but now he found them a thoroughly agreeable way to pass the daylight hours. Wish they had had these back in the day. Would have given me something to do when Drusilla was off her rocker and conversing with the fairies for hours. Angel got up, stalked around the desk, and yanked the game out of Spike’s hands. “Oi! Give it back!” Spike yelled. “As I was saying,” Angel snarled, tossing the game in a desk drawer. “We need to…” Angel was interrupted by the intercom on his desk. Muttering a curse under his breath he pressed the button and said, “What is it Harmony?” “There are two visitors here from the Watcher’s council in England?” came the high pitched reply. “They say it’s really urgent.” Angel sighed with annoyance. “Send them up, Harmony,” he grumbled. “I bloody well hope it isn’t another rogue Slayer,” Spike remarked. “Just finally got the feeling back in my hands from the last one.” Someone knocked on the door and Angel called, “Come in.” The door opened to reveal Andrew Wells and, to everyone’s surprise, Willow Rosenberg. “Willow. It’s been a long time,” Angel said, coming around the desk to shake hands. “Andrew,” he acknowledged grudgingly. Both the visitors seemed solemn and subdued, and Angel felt an unexpected chill down his spine. He’d seen this look on her face before. Willow saw Spike and her mouth dropped open. “I didn’t believe Andrew when he told me on the way over here. You really are alive.” Spike smirked. “Undead at least. Good to see you, Red.” “Why are you here?” Angel asked apprehensively. Andrew and Willow looked at each other. Willow bit her lip for a moment then turned to Angel and said in a quavering voice, “Buffy’s dead, Angel. She died a few days ago.” “What?” Angel breathed. “How? What happened?” Spike sat ramrod straight, his mouth open but otherwise frozen in place. “A Rothanar demon killed one of the younger Slayers,” Andrew explained. “Buffy and two of the others went after it. It killed one of them, but Buffy took it down. It poisoned her in the process. The third Slayer went for help, but by the time we got there it was too late.” His voice broke at the end, for once losing its annoyingly pompous theatrical tone. Angel sat down heavily in his chair. “Oh God,” he said, covering his face for a long moment. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He knew this day would come, someday. But she had been doing so well, last he heard, and this news was shocking, unexpected. “We thought you should hear it in person,” Willow said quietly. “We know you still had feelings for her.” “Angel, I’m so sorry,” Fred began, moving over to put a hand on Angel’s shoulder. She was interrupted by Spike leaping from his chair with such force that the chair went flying over backward. He looked at all of them with pain filled eyes, mouth opening and closing, clearly searching for something to say. In the end he turned and stormed out, duster flying behind him. “Spike, wait!” Andrew called after him, but Spike continued off down the hall, stalking with vampire speed, knocking lawyers aside as he went. He got in the elevator and viciously punched the button for the parking garage. When the door opened he stalked over to Angel’s Viper and got in. He sat there for a moment staring into space. Then with an incoherent roar he pounded the steering wheel again and again, not stopping until it was slightly bent from the force and his hand was black and blue. He gave in to the despair then and rested his forehead on the mangled wheel. She’s gone. And the fucking poof gets the sympathy and the condolences. I loved her. Loved her more than that bastard ever could. Oh, Slayer… He thought of what he knew about Rothanar demons. The poison was swift acting but not instantaneous, paralyzing the victims as their life force drained away like water from a drain. Had she died alone, terrified as her body grew cold? The thought of his golden goddess lying there helpless and dying crushed his heart. In a daze he started the car and pulled out of the garage. His cell phone rang as he drove down the street toward the highway. Taking it in one hand he squeezed it until it cracked and silenced under the force of his grief and anger. Tossing the plastic remains on the floor he merged onto the freeway and floored the accelerator. He drove for miles, paying no attention to where he was going. While he drove he thought of her. He pictured her golden hair, the shining tenderness in her eyes when she held his hand in the Hellmouth.He wondered with a sinking heart if she had given up, like Nikki Wood had. Like that Chinese slayer. No. It couldn’t have been that. She had her Scoobies. She had the chance for a normal life finally. She could leave this fucking hell hole of a state behind her. She had a future to live for. He wasn’t sure if that thought made the whole thing more or less painful to bear. She had died a Slayer’s death, in battle, like she always expected to. Not what I wanted for you, love. Eventually Spike turned back toward LA, making it to the bar just after sunset. He hated the shiny yuppie-ness of the bar that the Wolfram and Hart types frequented, but he could run a tab there under Angel’s name. Tonight, he intended to get drunk. Thoroughly, completely, mind erasingly drunk. He sat down in the darkest corner he could find, and asked the waitress to bring him a bottle of JD and a glass and then to bugger off. The waitress complied and scuttled away from the pale, angry looking Englishman. Spike poured the first shot and held it up. To you, Slayer. Hope you get to stay in Heaven this time. He downed the shot with moist eyes and reached for the bottle again. Two hours later he was deep into his second bottle. He was feeling the effects fairly heavily at this point, and the room swam a bit as he poured another shot. A figure approached his table, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the little glass of brown liquid in front of him. “Spike?” Spike looked up and focused on the pair of Andrews looking at him. “Andrew. What do you want?” “Can I sit down for a moment?” he asked nervously. “Fuck off, there’s a good lad,” Spike slurred. “Got nothing to say.” “Spike, I know how much she meant to you,” Andrew began. Spike reached up and grabbed Andrew by the shirt front, pulling him down and vamping out inches from his suddenly wide eyes. “What part of ‘Fuck off’ do you not understand? You’ve delivered your message. Now leave me alone.” He released Andrew roughly and turned back to his whiskey, his gameface melting away. Andrew gasped and backed up slightly. He hovered there, unsure of how to proceed. Finally he pulled a small red covered book from his pocket and laid it on the table. “This was hers. I thought you should have it. I’m sorry, Spike” Andrew turned then and walked away, figuring he had done all he could at the moment. Spike stared at the book for a moment or two before picking it up. He held it for a moment then brought it to his nose. Closing his eyes he inhaled. Buffy. She had held this book, a lot. The cloth cover still held her sweet scent. The tears threatened again behind his eyelids as he drank in the familiar fragrance of her. He opened it up to the first page and was astonished to see his own name there. Dear Spike, he read. I know you’re out there laughing somewhere. Probably calling me some stupid British insult that I wouldn’t understand because I’m writing to you in my journal… Spike suddenly needed to be in his apartment. He wanted to read this alone, in private. He got up, staggering slightly. He pocketed the book, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and headed for home. He left the Viper where it was. If Angel wants it he can go find it. A short while later he was letting himself into his tiny basement apartment and locking the door behind him. He pulled off his duster and sat down in his one semi-comfortable armchair, placing the whiskey on the floor next to him. With shaking hands he opened the book again and started to read. Dear Spike, I know you’re out there laughing somewhere. Probably calling me some stupid British insult that I wouldn’t understand because I’m writing to you in my journal. But you always were someone I could talk to. Not like I have anyone else anymore. I guess you’re wondering why I’m writing any of this down at all. I just felt like I had to get it out there, somewhere. I’ll probably end up burning this so it doesn’t get found, but whatever. I miss you. Right after we got out of Sunnydale I was flying on adrenaline for about two weeks straight. We made a stop in LA to regroup, take the injured to a hospital, figure out our next move. We saw Angel but he was pretty busy with his… whatever the hell he’s doing with Evil Law Firm, Inc. I tried to tell him that you saved the world. He didn’t seem that interested. I suppose you’d call him a wanker or a ponce and belt him one. I thought about it, but never did get the time. Before I knew it Giles was hustling us off to England to try to figure out what was left of the council resources and all that. I finally lost it in Heathrow. I was doing fine, just fine until we were waiting for a cab and someone behind us said, “This coffee is bloody awful.” He sounded so much like you that I turned, only to find that it was some black haired guy with glasses and a cheap suit. I started crying then. I didn’t stop for about a week. They ended up sedating me after the first couple days. I heard Giles telling the others that it was probably a delayed reaction to the stress of the last several months, the battle, having my home destroyed, etc. I couldn’t find a way to tell him that the only loss that mattered to me was you. I guess that’s fucked up. I mean, Anya was close to all of us, and the Slayers we lost were just kids. But none of those losses hit me as hard. I’ve been out of the hospital for two weeks now. The shrink I’m seeing (Giles insisted) has me on antidepressants. I guess they help. I only cry at bedtime now. It’s pretty hard to talk to a shrink though. Saying you are upset because you loved a vampire and no one understands that is pretty much a one way ticket to the looney bin. But the doctor suggested journal writing as a way of coping. Might as well, I suppose. I guess I’ll keep you informed of what’s going on. Who knows? Maybe you can see this wherever you are. I have to believe you’re somewhere good. I should think that saving the world pretty much wipes out a mere century of mayhem. But I have to believe that you’re at peace. I’ll lose it again if I don’t cling to that. -Buffy Spike stared open mouthed at the words on the page. He read them again and again, certain that they would resolve into something else once his head cleared. There was no way that she was this broken up about him. She had said she loved him, sure, but in a ‘you saved the world, you’re my champion’ way. At least that is what he had convinced himself. He had stayed in LA because he had imagined her being proud of him, honoring his memory, but not pining for him. He flipped through the journal slowly, drinking steadily as he read the entries. Sometimes she would write for three or four days in a row. Sometimes she went two weeks between entries. Tears slipped down his cheeks unheeded as he realized how wrong he had been about her feelings toward him. Dear Spike, Isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? Isn’t that the theory? Time passes, I forget, I move on? Well fuck whoever came up with that, because it isn’t working. I sort of thought that once there were a zillion other Slayers that maybe I could get a break. Doesn’t seem to be working out that way though. See all those new Slayers still need training, mentoring, and all that shit. Giles has set up this Slayer training academy, and Faith and I get to be the head instructors. Lucky us. In some ways it’s like that vaunted ‘normal life’ that Angel wanted me to have. I work normal hours. I actually get paid, due to some watcher accounts that Giles got access to somehow. Most of the routine slaying is done by the younger Slayers – they save me and Faith for the big stuff. I’ve got an apartment (or flat if you’re going to be all British about it) for me and Dawn. I cook, or do what passes for cooking around here. I check out the British stores. I hate it. Maybe it will get better. It’s only been two months after all. I’ve never done the normal grieving thing. I mean when my mom died I was preoccupied, shall we say? What with the whole hell God and the dying and whatnot. Never did have time to just sit and think about the loss. Well now I have plenty of time. Plenty of time to notice how many British accents remind me of yours. Plenty of time to listen to Giles pontificate while I wish I could have just one good brawl with you. Plenty of time for the new Slayers to puff up their flat little chests about how awesome they are because they saved the world. I tried reminding them once or twice that none of them would have saved anything without you. They roll their eyes. I give up. Still miss you, stupid vampire. –Buffy The words on the page were like a bucket of cold water over his head. I ended up being just as much of an ass as the poof, didn’t I? he admonished himself. Had that same ‘give the Slayer a normal life’ crap going. Should have known that wasn’t what she needed. She had missed him. She had been grieving him needlessly, as he sat in LA wrestling with whether or not to go to her, afraid of being rejected. You’re an ass, William. Hurt the girl worse trying to do the right thing. Useless wanker. He took another pull at the whiskey and turned back to the journal. Dear Spike, Or should I say, Mr. Pratt? I’ve had more than the usual amount of time on my hands lately. Dawn went off to one of those famous English boarding schools. She wants to become a watcher, God help us all, so Giles insisted she needed to get the fancy education. It’s pretty lonely around here without her. But I decided to find a project for myself. Need to keep busy, right? At least that’s what the shrink says. Mustn’t wallow, to quote him exactly. So I decided to research you. Giles is beyond thrilled that I actually want to read all the watcher’s diaries and other stuff that he managed to salvage from the estates and apartments of all the dead council members. He thinks I am researching Slayer history or whatever. But I’ve been looking for everything I can about William ‘the Bloody’ Pratt. Took me about a month to figure out your last name (I can see why. Pratt. That’s like having the last name Doofus or something). But I pieced it together from old newspapers and speculation by various Watchers. No one thought that the poet who disappeared around that time could possibly be you, but I’d know your picture anywhere. I made a copy of the microfiche from the library. It’s the only thing I have to remind me of you, but it’s better than nothing. –Buffy Spike shook his head in bemusement. She had sussed out his past. So much for the big bad. Busted. Totally busted, William, he told himself. It touched him deeply to know that she had researched him. A folded piece of paper was stuck in the journal at that point and he unfolded it. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article from 1880, reporting the disappearance of a Mrs. Pratt, wife of the late George Pratt, and her son William Pratt, who had been missing for a fortnight. Spike read with interest how a neighbor had found the door open and had discovered the body of the maid in the hallway. The police ‘suspected foul play’. The article was accompanied by a sketch of himself and his mother, clearly drawn from the daguerreotype that had been always on the side table in the parlor. I’d forgotten about the maid, he thought. He and Drusilla had come home. Their little maid of all work had opened the door, babbling about how worried the mistress had been. “Please come in sir, your mother is beside herself,” she had said. He had grabbed her and drained her before she could make another sound. Bridget. That was her name. Little Irish lass all over freckles as I recall. Buffy had read about him, about how his mother had gone and the maid had died. But instead of reacting with horror and disgust she had saved this picture as a precious memento. He stared at the image of his mother, realizing how long it had been since he had recalled her face. She looked so kindly and careworn in this picture. The horror of her vampire visage had treacherously replaced her human face in his memory. He stifled a sob and reached for the bottle again. He drained it, looked at it longingly, then set it down with a sigh and went back to reading. Dear Spike, I found your father’s grave today. I’ve been scouring likely churchyards for a couple weeks. Giles keeps telling me I don’t have to patrol anymore, but I told him I need to stay in shape or some such rot (God, I’m starting to use British slang. Shoot me now.) But tonight, there it was – the Pratt family plot. You must have had relatives who missed you or something. Someone carved your name and your mother’s name below your father’s on the stone. I guess they must have figured you two were dead after a while. I didn’t realize your mother was Anne. My middle name. Small world. I didn’t know that you were so young when your father died. I didn’t know that you had a sister who died when she was three. So much I didn’t know about you. So much I never will. Spike hadn’t thought about his father’s grave since he was turned. It had never occurred to him to go looking for his own grave. Must’ve been Aunt Mary who put our names on it. His mother’s only relative other than himself had been her younger sister. Spike conjured up images of his mother and his aunt taking tea, consoling each other over the loss of husbands, of children taken young by the inevitable childhood diseases. His aunt would have been frantic over their disappearance. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having his name on a tombstone somewhere. He never felt particularly dead most of the time. Just seemed odd to have that memorial to someone who was still around. He returned to Buffy’s girly writing, wondering what else she had discovered. Dear Spike, My research project continues. I found the church where you were baptized and looked up your baptismal record. William Henry Pratt? As in the same name as Boris Karloff in real life? It’s pretty ironic for someone with that name to become a real live monster. Not that you were a monster in the end. Not to me at least. Now that I know your birthday. I promise to have a nice stiff drink of whiskey in your honor on June 21. I’ll have to drink at home though. I won’t have you to carry my drunken ass home this time. –Buffy. The entries went on, one after the other. In some she talked about the petty annoyances of teaching the younger slayers, of their irritating habits, predicting that none of them would make it to twenty. In other entries she talked about Dawn’s school progress. But all of the entries had that same note of loss and loneliness. Each new entry was another handful of salt in Spike’s self inflicted wounds. He kept reading thinking, she had to have gotten over it. There’s no way she couldn’t have. She was the Slayer. She was strong. She had to see that I wasn’t worth it. The opening lines of an entry six months after Sunnyhell gave him some hope as he read: Dear Spike, The ache is getting less. It’s not gone or anything. But after six months it is fading a little. I no longer tear up when I hear someone talk about Manchester United. I don’t cry myself to sleep every night. I’m down to maybe one or two nights a week. My shrink says it’s progress. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the antidepressants. Maybe I’ve just gotten too tired to care. Don’t worry, I’m not going looking for some vampire to have his good day. I want you to be proud of me, wherever you are. So I’m going to try to move on, somehow. I’ve been hanging out at a local pub with some of the older girls on Fridays. There’s this bartender who’s been flirting with me a lot. His name is Nigel. He doesn’t look anything like you – taller, brown eyes, short hair. I guess I’ll go out with him if he asks me. There’s no sparkage, but I suppose it’s not good to be alone all the time. I haven’t been with anyone since that last night with you. I used to lie in bed and think about you and touch myself and imagine it was your hands. But even that doesn’t work anymore. Can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm. Pathetic, isn’t it? I hardly ever get riled up by patrol any more either. It’s like all those parts atrophied from lack of use. But who knows? Maybe I’ll remember how it all works if I can find someone to date. We’ll see. –Buffy Spike frowned a bit. The thought of Buffy, his sex goddess, going without for all those months saddened him. At the same time, he bristled at the idea of some bartender touching her. Guess I don’t get to complain about her finding someone. That’s what I wanted, right? Her to move on? Careful what you wish for. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read about her relationship with Nigel, but curiosity got the better of him as he continued. Dear Spike, Nigel finally did ask me out. He took me out to dinner and a movie. It was okay, I guess. I kissed him good night. His lips felt so hot. It was weird. I’ve gotten so used to vamp body temperature that I forgot that human guys actually generate heat. He’s an okay kisser. I guess. Maybe I’m just a terrible kisser and it was all you before. Wow, could I sound any less excited? Shrink man says I need to let go of my image of a perfect man and give people a chance. He says that the way I’m acting no one could ever live up to my memories of my boyfriend William, who died not too long before I moved to the UK. (Clever how I spun that, huh?) I guess I should listen to him. But I still wish I was kissing you. Love you still, Buffy Ha! Take that, Nigel, Spike thought with a smirk. His smirk only intensified as he got to the next entry. Dear Spike, I finally slept with Nigel. We had been going out for a couple of weeks when he invited me to his flat. I thought that maybe once I remembered what sex was like I could somehow wake up, get over you, whatever you want to call it. Total disaster. His cock wasn’t long enough, and his body was all hot and sweaty, not cool and smooth like yours. He went down on me, which is more than I could ever say for Riley or Angel, but he was just terrible at it. I ended up finally faking an orgasm just to get it over with. Seriously, is the clitoris that hard to find? Really? Then he lasted about a minute once he was inside. And we had to use a condom, which I fucking hate. At least with vampires you don’t have to worry about pregnancy or AIDS or any of that stuff. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I think he noticed. It was pretty obvious that my mind was elsewhere. We did the ‘I’ll call you’ song this morning, but I’m pretty sure it’s over. Happy now? You’ve ruined me for other guys. –Buffy He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not as he reread the line about ruining her for other guys. She had been amazing in bed. Either this Nigel was the most inept git who ever got between the sheets or she truly did miss what they had. He shook his head as he turned the page. As he made his way through the next entry though, his mouth dropped open slowly and the tears started falling again as he realized how deeply the Slayer still felt, even after almost eight months. Dear Spike, Had a big fight with Giles today. Seems there’s some crazy Slayer who’s running around LA wreaking havoc. Giles thinks I should lead the team to go bring her in. I told him I have no desire whatsoever to see Angel and LA. Giles kept pressing for why and trotting out the whole ‘it’s your duty’ crap until I finally snapped and told him that it was because Angel’s little amulet killed the man I loved. Giles got all pissed about how I needed to move on and we don’t have time to live in the past and blah blah blah. I finally told him to send Andrew or whatever – I’m not going. I don’t need to see Angel. I don’t trust him as far as I could pick him up and throw him (even given the whole Slayer strength thing). This whole evil law firm thing that he says is part of some bigger plan just seems like a case of Angel losing the whole mission. Even if it is part of some grand, world saving thing, I don’t care. He should be the one at the bottom of that pit. Not you. Damn it. I’m crying again. Fuck you. Fuck you for leaving me. You weren’t ever supposed to leave me. You said you wouldn’t. Liar. Bastard. Couldn’t even say ‘I love you back’ could you? No, I had to be content with ‘No you don’t, but thanks for saying it’ as the last thing I heard from you. Fuck you and the bitch that sired you and the bastard that sired her and all the way back up the whole line of Aurelius to the dawn of fucking time. You spent all that time trying to make me fall in love with you and then it worked and then you left me. Fuck. You. The writing was jagged, the pen nearly tearing the paper in a couple of spots. In his mind he could imagine her voice, ragged with fury and pain. He had heard that voice before, in her bathroom, the last time he had fucked up so royally. He dropped the journal and buried his head in his hands. Forgive me, Slayer. Dear God, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. He fisted his hands in his hair and cursed himself for a fool ten times over. After a while he got up and went to his kitchenette. He found a half empty bottle of whiskey in the corner and drank it down in one long swallow. He pondered it for a moment then dropped it, barely registering the sound of breaking glass before staggering off to his bed to pass out. He was awakened sometime around noon by the phone ringing. The noise dragged him out of a terrible dream in which the Slayer was stepping off that tower again and again, with his fingers snatching at empty air every time he tried to save her. He sat up and instantly regretted it as his head pounded and the room swam. The phone kept ringing as he stared at it, until at last he couldn’t take it anymore and ripped it clean out of the wall, hurling it into the corner. For a moment he stood there, unsure what to do next, but his growling stomach decided for him and he headed to the kitchen. The fridge yielded a single half empty container of blood, which he drank cold, despite the rank taste. Tossing the container in the trash, he made his way to the living room. The red covered journal was lying on the floor, looking like an accusatory bloodstain. He stared at it a moment before he bent to pick it up, his hands caressing the cover lightly as he sat down. All the love and pain filled words came rushing back to him, choking him with the reminder of how wrong he had been. I killed her, he thought. Just as sure as if I had drained her neck. He contemplated just putting the book away forever, burning it, walking out into the sun clutching it – anything to avoid having to read more evidence of his colossal misjudgment. But the masochistic streak he had when it came to love won out as always and he opened the journal. Paging through until he came to her scrawled ‘Fuck. You.’, he turned the page, steeling himself for further abuse from a dead girl. Dear Spike, My shrink says that I should keep writing in my journal if it helps. I had what you might call a bit of a relapse. Had to up the antidepressants after that fight with Giles. I was crying every night again. Nightmares too. I keep seeing you burning over and over. I scared the hell out of Dawn the other night. She was home for the weekend and I woke up screaming. I guess that’s why she doesn’t come home that much anymore. She’s getting really tall. I think she might be close to what you were. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’m sorry that you’ve become my dirty little secret again. I know you hate that. You’re probably disgusted with me. But I just can’t explain to the others why I still miss you so much. There aren’t words. Besides, to hear Giles and the others we have to be ready for another apocalypse at ANY TIME so there is just no time to dwell on the past. So I just don’t mention you anymore. Sorry about that. Makes me feel like I’m killing you again somehow. The others have done a reasonable job of moving on. Robin and Faith are in Cleveland now. They’ve talked about marriage, but who knows what will happen with Faith. Willow and Kennedy broke up, but Willow’s seeing some witch from some local coven. Hannah’s her name. Reminds me a little of Tara. Even Xander seems to have found someone. He’s been teaming up with this Slayer named Karen to go look for Slayers to round up in other countries. I think they’re in South Africa now. I should read my email sometime to find out exactly where. Hard for me to care. As far as everyone else knows, I am getting over my depression. They don’t need to know that it’s chemically enhanced happiness. I am a good little dedicated do-bee who is here to mold the next generation of Slayers. I even go out and socialize. Not brooding, nope. But at night, it’s me, and your picture, and this journal. Sometimes if I fall asleep with your picture I have good dreams about you. About you telling me I was the one, and making love to me, and those eyes of yours. Love your eyes. Wish they had color photography back when you were alive so that I could have a picture of those eyes. I guess a black and white sketch is better than nothing. Would you be shocked if I said I would sell my soul to get you back? Probably sounds like a slap in the face after all you went through to get your soul. But I’m not really using mine right now, so if there are any cosmic beings out there who want a slightly used slayer soul in exchange for a vampire, give me a ring, okay? On second thought, I wouldn’t do that to you – pull you back here like my friends did to me. I hope you’re in that warm, peaceful place that I remember. Maybe someday I’ll find you there. –Buffy “Slayer…” Spike moaned quietly aloud. He had to admit, when he was wrong, he went all the way. He could have spent all these months holding her, fighting with her, just being with her. The deep seated sadness in her words pierced him and he broke down, weeping helplessly into his hands as he had when he had seen her crushed and broken body at the bottom of that tower. Then he had had Giles shaking him, ordering him to pull himself together for Dawn’s sake, dragging him bodily into the shade until he could heal enough to drag himself to his crypt. Now he wept alone, and the sobbing went on and on, until he felt wrung out and empty. Finally he ran out of tears, cursed himself again for his weakness and stupidity, and picked up the journal once more. Might as well finish it, he thought. The need to punish himself somehow for his sins drove him to turn the page and continue reading what he realized was her last entry. Dear Spike, I haven’t written in a while. Things have actually gotten busy around here. There’s been a lot of demon activity all of a sudden. Not clear why – Giles is working on it. He can just point me at what he wants me to kill once he finds out what it is. Happy Birthday, by the way. The big 152 today. You don’t look a day over 28 in your picture. I put some flowers and a small bottle of JD on your family gravestone. Hope you like them. I brought home some whiskey for myself as well. My tolerance has increased a little since I’ve been here. Now I can drink half a bottle before I start to get a serious buzz. I’m still wasted at the end of the bottle, but provided I don’t have to go anywhere, who cares. My shrink would probably say that drinking alone is a bad sign. Fuck him. I only keep seeing him so I can keep getting the antidepressants. Not too sure how I’d function without them. I miss you. I write that a lot don’t I? But I do. God I’d kill for a good conversation. Everyone’s so fucking polite here. Most of the little Slayerettes are all polite and respectful to me, and Willow and Giles are all business all the time. I’d kill for someone to call me a stupid bint, or whatever the hell you used to call me. Daft. Completely carrot top. All that random shit you used to spout. Miss it. All these months and I still miss it. You know why I loved you in the end? Because you were working so hard to do the right thing. Even before you got your soul, you worked harder than anyone to help me, to be a better person. The soul was just icing on the cake. You never needed the soul to be a good man. I’m sure it helped, somehow, on someone’s cosmic balance sheet. But even though I didn’t tell you it then, you need to know that you were being a good man. Maybe not perfect, maybe not all the time. But you’ve always had it in you. And the fact that you would suffer, and struggle, and put up with all that crap for me was so humbling and so bewildering that I didn’t know what to do with you. But now I do. I’m going to love you. Always. Even though you’re not here. Even though no one is going to know except me and this stupid diary. I love you, William Pratt. I love you. Buffy It was the last entry, apparently written shortly before her last battle. Spike’s eyes misted once more as his hands ran over the words ‘I love you, William Pratt’ over and over. She had died loving him. She had kept fighting, through the pain and grief, still trying, still giving the world every last bit of herself. He closed the journal and stared at it, stroking the cover and thinking. He was still staring at it when a knock came at the door. He ignored it for a moment until he heard Angel calling, “Spike? I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you.” “Yeah,” Spike answered. He got up, still holding the journal. He took it into his bedroom and closed it carefully in the drawer of his bedside table before rubbing his hands over his face and going to open the door. Angel was there with bloodshot eyes, but otherwise looking his normal broody self. “What is it, Angel?” Spike asked wearily. Angel winced at the circles under Spike’s eyes, the whiskey still on his breath, and the haggard look to his face. “You didn’t answer your phones, and you took my car,” Angel said. “Wanted to know if you were okay.” “Car’s over on Seventh Street near the bar,” Spike muttered. “Do you need something from me?” Taken aback by the curt reply, Angel said, “I just wondered if you wanted to talk. I know she meant a lot to you.” Spike closed his eyes for a moment, as the words she had written swirled in his head. “No,” he replied softly. “Just… need to be alone right now.” “Spike, she was the Slayer,” Angel began. “We knew… we both knew this could happen any time.” “I know,” Spike said, staring into the wall behind Angel. “There’s going to be a funeral in London,” Angel said. “I’m leaving on the corporate jet in two hours. You’re welcome to come.” Spike folded his arms and stared at the ground a while before responding. “No. My presence isn’t going to help matters. Just going to bring questions and blame and hurt.” “Spike I’m sure that…” “Leave, Angel,” Spike said in the same quiet, flat voice. His swagger and exaggerated accent had melted into a low, emotionless tone that Angel didn’t recognize. Angel stared uncomprehending as Spike closed the door gently but firmly in his face. The lock turned with a click, and Angel was left alone in the corridor, bewildered. ******************** An hour later Andrew was packing for the return to England when he heard a knock on the door. He looked through the peephole to see the unmistakable white hair of Spike. Andrew opened the door cautiously. “Spike? What can I do for you?” “Where did you get the journal?” Spike asked, fixing him with reddened eyes. “Um, do you want to come in and talk about…” “I just… I need to know,” Spike said, and his voice, while half its usual volume, clearly brooked no argument. “After… after she died, everyone was over at the house,” Andrew explained in a halting tone. “Xander came in, and needed somewhere to crash. No one wanted to go into… into her room. To sleep, I mean. But we needed an extra pillow, so I went and got one from her bed. The journal was under it. I… well…” “You read it,” Spike said with a piercing glare. “Only the first few pages,” Andrew said quickly. “I skimmed the rest, and when I saw that it was all written to you, I thought you should see it. The others… I didn’t tell them. It didn’t feel right to. I don’t know why,” Andrew finished quietly. Spike nodded quietly, then put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk away. He stopped and half turning said, “Thanks.” Then he disappeared into the nearest stairwell and was gone. ******************** When Angel returned from London he called Spike, and got no answer. Eventually he went over to Spike’s apartment and found the door unlocked. “Spike?” he called, walking in and looking around. The apartment was empty, clearly unlived in. He spied a note on the coffee table and unfolded it, recognizing Spike’s copperplate penmanship. Angel, Need to be on my own for a while. Don’t worry, still one of the white hats. If you really need me for something call this number. Otherwise, all I ask is that you let me be. The note was unsigned, except for a phone number. Angel read and reread the note, wondering what Spike could possibly be up to. The routine at Wolfram and Hart went on. A few times he did call the number and true to his word, Spike had shown up. With little in the way of greeting, Spike had quietly asked for his assignment, carried out the task efficiently and to the letter, then vanished again. Reports came from time to time of nests of demons and vampires being cleaned out, evidence of Spike’s solo activities. He could sometimes be found drinking in the bar, but tended to vanish if any of the team tried to draw him into conversation. He borrowed the corporate jet one weekend. The records showed that he had gone to London, but he never said a word about it, and Angel didn’t press him. Spike existed in a solitary world that Angel was no longer welcome in. After Fred had been consumed by Ilyria Spike occasionally allowed Wesley to pull up a chair next to him at the bar. The two Englishmen drank side by side, barely speaking, silently sharing the loss of the women they loved. But for the most part, Spike acted alone, drank alone, and retired to his new apartment alone, spending hours scratching words into a journal with a black cover. When the final battle came, Spike was there, ready to do his duty. Afterward, Angel had to admit that he was only alive because of Spike. Spike had fought like a creature from hell, tearing demons apart right and left, heedless of his own injuries. Angel had come within a millimeter of being roasted by the dragon when Spike had come out of nowhere, stabbing the creature in the throat, only to get blasted by its fiery breath for his pains. Spike had caught Angel’s eye for a split second before falling to dust, and Angel had seen nothing but relief in the blue depths. When the dust settled Angel was the only one left. Ilyria had torn a hole in the sky and pulled the rest of the demons after her, leaving massive devastation stretching for ten city blocks, and in the center, the collapsed, newly human form of Angel. He had staggered out of the disaster zone and had been helped to a hospital by a policeman. Willow had shown up again after he had been in the hospital for a few days, offering him a job working with them. He had told her he’d think about it after he tied some things up. In truth, he had no idea what to do. He had thought that he would seek out Buffy should he ever fulfill the Shanshue prophesy, but with her and everyone else gone, he was at sea. When the doctor’s discharged him he found himself wandering the streets. He went to Wesley’s place and packed up his things, sending them off to Giles in England. Among his things he found an address for Spike, which puzzled him. He didn’t know that Spike and Wesley had ever exchanged any words outside of those related to the mission of the day. So it was a good month after the battle that Angel found himself in front of a door to a basement apartment in a low-rent part of town. The landlord was half demon, and had no particular qualms about letting Angel into Spike’s apartment. Angel turned on the light and looked around. It was a tiny studio, containing a bed, a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, and a small desk. He turned on the desk lamp and sat down. He opened the drawer and found two books, one red, one black. He opened the red one and saw the first words… Dear Spike… Angel wrinkled his brow in confusion. This was Buffy’s writing. How did Spike get a hold of this? He read, his eyes growing wider by the second. He found he couldn’t stop, and an hour and a half later he finally closed the book and rubbed his eyes, trying to process what he had read. She had loved Spike. Not him. She had hated him for killing Spike. He knew that their relationship had changed, but he had no idea. He had thought she had held some distant affection for him, but she hadn’t even wanted to see him. She had wanted Spike, mourned for him, and longed for him. Her normal life hadn’t made her happy. It was all for nothing. Hesitating, he opened the black book. Dear Buffy, read the opening lines. With a heavy heart he sat back to read the other half of the tale. The end. |