A Heavy Heart, Beloved by Jess Marie

Chapter #1 - A Heavy Heart, Beloved

Title: “A Heavy Heart, Beloved” Rating: PG Author: Jess Marie Disclaimer: Imitation is still the sincerest form of flattery. Please don’t sue me for it. Warnings: Just a sad, angsty little fic. Buffy is dead. She’s not off somewhere beating the good unholy hell out of some new big bad. Not popped round to the market for a spot of daily bread. Most definitely not, “Away,” as the red witch is so fond of putting it. God, how he’d love to tear bright crimson gashes in her little pearl throat each time he’d heard her say it. “…since Buffy’s been… away.” Each time he’d heard that telltale catch, the pause stretching to infinity and the tense drop in volume generally meant to signal some naughty profanity or dirty locker room secret. Dead, you gits. Buffy is dead. Spike has no problem with the word. Dealt far too many still nights and final endings to go over all squeamish at the sound of simple invective. And after over a hundred twenty years, he’s at least wise enough to know that saying different doesn’t make it so. But he’s gotta give Red credit. Of all the euphemisms, perhaps hers grates the least. The best the bloody ripper can manage is “passed on.” Right, Rupes. Just passed on to Merry Olde for warm crumpets and a cuppa. And the boy… the poor boy can’t even bring himself to that level of creative exposition. He just looks dimly through shadows with swollen chocolate eyes and trails off right after, “…but Buffy’s…” Sometimes Spike has caught sight of Harris’s girl, staring at him, worrying a cute pink lip between her little teeth, and he knows she wants to tell, wants to say. Buffy is dead. But she never speaks it. She shakes it off. And Spike gets the feeling that’s a lesson learned around Joyce’s time. But it’s speculation, really. He isn’t certain of the truth of it. And the Bit… well, the Bit doesn’t speak of Buffy at all. Leastwise, not with him. He and Dawn slipped into artistry unawares. Innocuous prattle is their masterpiece. It’s worse since the ‘bot. All shiny pink shirts and pretty plastoscene smile. There’s more reason to talk about Buffy now, more reason for the lot of them to dodge the truth in deft toe taps and sidesteps that would do Fred and Ginger proud. He’d overheard the others in the Magic Box one night as they’d talked pros and cons of rebuilding the modern marvel. He’d heard Harris arguing with the blonde witch, the whelp’s not so subtle suggestion that Spike would only ending up drowning himself in the ‘bot instead of booze, and then they’d lose him too. Blood had dripped from Spike’s palms as he’d stood in the doorway to the training room with sharp nails in clenched fists. Even has he’d heard Tara come to his defense, nervously insisting that Xander didn’t understand, that Spike would never… he had dreamed of tearing at the boy’s limbs, leaving stale life draining onto the grey cement floor. But then the whelp would be dead. Like Buffy. And suddenly such an end didn’t seem good enough. Not good enough for any of them, really. Better they all suffer. After all, they’d all had their place in protecting her. And they’d all done their part to fail. God knows Spike had done his. So shouldn’t the rest of them face up and take their lumps too? What right do the children have to hide behind their well-placed phrases and sharply dropped eyes? Spike can admit it, after all. He can admit that she’s dead. And Spike knows, in the deep parts of a dry heart, his loss cuts worse than theirs. It’s not wanton melodrama or self-pity. It’s truth. Because, to them, Buffy was friend, sister, surrogate daughter, icon, defender. Leader of the merry band and warrior of the people. All the external bits and pieces that gave their lives order and made the puzzle fit. To Spike, she was both more and less. A simple thing and everything. She just filled the empty spaces within. The elusive thing he’d never known he wanted. Because to Spike, Buffy was love. And now Buffy’s dead. And love died with her. A/N: The title is from a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning in “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” It’s taken from the first two lines… “A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne From year to year until I saw thy face.” When I wrote this, I hadn’t written anything except chapters for “Paper Promise” in what seemed like forever, but this idea grabbed me and I gave it a shot. Please review and tell me if it was worth doing.