Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
 
Thank you so much to all the reviewers who stuck with me through this fic!
 
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Epilogue
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Autumn in Vancouver tended towards rainy, but when the sun broke through and illuminated the surrounding mountains, it was worth every wet umbrella. Buffy paused in her task of setting the table just to lean on the edge of their balcony, looking out over the harbor and enjoying the breeze in her hair. “Lovely tonight, isn’t it?” Spike said as he joined her in admiring the view. He rested his hands lightly on her hips as Buffy leaned her head back contentedly against his shoulder.
 
They had wandered for many long years before they came to Vancouver, and they had both fallen in love with it. They had purchased a small condo with an enormous view. Although they had sometimes rented it out when they traveled in the early years, now it was the closest thing they had to a permanent home. Buffy turned and kissed Spike, bustling back inside to put the finishing touches on dinner. Spike followed, her, finding a pair of wineglasses and uncorking an exquisite Sauvignon Blanc that he had bought earlier. He brought wine and glasses to the outdoor table, pouring himself a glass and enjoying it while he watched his wife through the sliding glass door.
 
Buffy came out with a salad, and then went back for a puffy cheese soufflé. Her cooking had improved over the decades, and Spike found himself salivating with anticipation. A few more touches and they were both able to sit down. Spike handed Buffy a glass of wine and proposed a toast. “Happy thirtieth anniversary, to the woman who will always be the wind beneath my wings.”
 
Buffy rolled her eyes and touched her glass to his. “Sometimes, you make immortality seem awfully long, you know that?” But she grinned as she said it and added, “Happy anniversary, Mr. Pratt.”
 
They enjoyed candlelight and the sunset as they shared their meal, talking and laughing. It had taken a long time for them to overcome the pain of their losses. Before leaving Sunnydale, they had broken into the morgue in the middle of the night, and had spirited Dawn’s body away. They had laid her to rest with tears and tenderness, digging her grave with their own hands. After packing up their things they had taken Joyce’s car and driven across the country. They acquired some camping gear and alternated between hotels and campgrounds. For months they drifted wherever their whims took them, trying to put Sunnydale behind them. They watched sunrise over the Grand Canyon, celebrated Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and snorkeled off the Florida Keys. They dispatched any demons or vampires that crossed their path, but otherwise didn’t look for trouble. Eventually they acquired a laptop to keep in touch with the Scoobies by email, but often went a week or more without checking it. Because of this, they didn’t hear about the crisis Angel’s team faced in L.A. until it was too late. They grieved the loss of Wesley, who had helped them so much, and of Angel, who had been a part of both of their lives for better or worse. But they still had no desire to return.
 
After that they’d left for Europe, roaming the world the same way they had roamed the country. Buffy laughed as they recalled Spike’s first plane trip – he had been white knuckled and terrified from take off until almost halfway to England. Their travels had taken them to every continent short of Antarctica. They had come back after a couple years for Xander and Anya’s belated wedding, and sent cards and gifts from exotic locales to their children. Willow and Tara had gone to England with Giles, working for the Watcher’s council. Although Buffy and Spike had occasionally checked out trouble spots for them, they flat out refused to form any sort of formal working relationship with the council, wanting no part of their machinations any more. Giles was in assisted living now, crippled in body but still sharp in his mind, and they corresponded with him from time to time.
 
Word had come after ten years or so that Faith had been killed in prison. A riot had broken out, and someone had gotten a hold of one of the guard’s guns. Faith had been shot while disarming the rioter, and another Slayer had been called. Three other Slayers had followed in succession – Buffy wasn’t completely sure of the current one’s name, but she was fine with that.
 
They finished their meal and cleared their places. Buffy put away this and that, while Spike bent to build a fire in their fireplace – the one thing he had insisted on in their condo. He retired to the couch when he finished, and Buffy joined him there, handing him another glass of wine. She put her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “This is so nice,” she purred.
 
“That it is,” he agreed, kissing her blonde hair. He had decided to let his hair go natural at some point, but he still kept it relatively short and tamed. Buffy turned to kiss him, running her hands through his soft curls.
 
“Spike?” Buffy said when she next came up for air.
 
“Yes, my love?”
 
“How would you feel about trying again?”
 
Spike pulled back a little and looked at her in astonishment. “Are you sure?” he asked. For many years they had avoided even talking about having another child. When they finally acknowledged it at all, either one or both of them felt the time wasn’t right, or a crisis came up and the issue went onto the back burner again. But Spike felt Buffy’s longing and determination coming across their mental link, and he knew the answer before she spoke.
 
“I’m sure,” Buffy said. “We’ve got a stable place here, the council doesn’t need us, and things have been good for a while. How about you? Do you think we should?”
 
Spike kissed her in response, and smiled, stroking her hair and gazing into her green eyes. “I’d like nothing better, Buffy. Emma was a miracle of the first order. But I think I’d like to try for a garden variety miracle this time.” Then the two lovers melted together and set about making it happen.
 
The End.