NEVER ALONE by Lilachigh

Chapter 3, Falling Into Place

Buffy is in Giles’ kitchen in the dead of night. She has made herself a hot drink to help her sleep and forget Spike, but perhaps she isn’t as alone as she thinks


Buffy froze. There, floating on top of her hot chocolate, were little white marshmallows. And unless she was going out of her mind, she knew they hadn’t been there moments before.

She put down her mug with a jolt. Only one person she knew could have, would have - ‘Spike! Spike, is it you? Talk to me! Please, please talk to me.!’

She stared round the moonlit kitchen but there was nothing, no one. She could feel the bitter tears in her eyes and fought to keep them back. He wasn’t there. He would never be there again. She was alone and always would be.

In the cold light of next morning, Buffy’s fancies of the night before seemed just that - fanciful. As she stared out of the window at the perfect symmetry of the Royal Crescent in Bath, she decided that today had to be the first day of the rest of her life. If she didn’t put Spike and all her memories of him behind her, she would go slowly but surely mad.

She was the last person to get into Giles’ bathroom that morning and the room was steamy. She stood under the shower trying to wash away all her unhappiness. What had happened last night was simple, she reasoned. She’d just forgotten that she’d put the marshmallows in her chocolate. She had so much on her mind, it wasn’t surprising.

Or perhaps as he left the kitchen, Giles had slipped them in while she wasn’t looking. She stepped out of the shower and drew a face on the steamy bathroom mirror. A bony face with curly hair and an eyebrow with slash through it.

Asking Giles wasn’t an option. How could she say to him, ‘Oh Giles, did you mess with my drink last night, because if it wasn’t you, then I think Spike is somewhere trying to get my attention!’

Giles upping her sugar intake to help her put on weight was far more likely than some sort of ghostly intervention from a dead vampire.

And if she ever discovered that Spike had been able to zoom around Giles’ kitchen sorting out marshmallows without speaking to her - well - she swiped the mirror clean with a towel - she’d kick his sorry butt all round England, ghost or not!

But that wasn’t going to happen because Spike was dead. He’d died saving the world and as long as she kept saying that to herself, she’d be fine. She wouldn’t allow any other voices room in her head. That way she would stay sane, be in some sort of control.

Giles was bright and cheerful over breakfast. He was taking the three young potentials for a training session up on the hills behind the city and Dawn seemed happy to join them.

Buffy was increasingly aware that her little sister was growing up fast, and becoming more and more independent with each passing day. And she was glad.

As a matter of urgency, Willow and Kennedy were busy researching a slime demon that had appeared in a local cemetery and were even reading over the breakfast table.

‘What are you going to do today, Buffy?’ Giles asked at last in his most pointed Watcher manner.

Buffy buttered her final piece of toast. ‘Oh, I’m ‘sort it out girl’ this morning,’ she said, echoing his bright tone. ‘I’m going to have a quick explore round the city, then book our plane tickets for Italy,’ and was aware of the look of relief that crossed his face.

The apartment emptied quickly and Buffy went to find their passports. She vaguely remembered leaving them on Giles’ desk when they arrived. Ttiptoeing into his little study, the one room he kept private, she smiled at the weird collections of books and strange looking objects scattered around it.

The passports weren’t there, but on a shelf above the desk there was a row of framed photographs. She’d had no idea that Giles had taken these over the years. It was as if she was looking at stills from a home movie: there she was, very young, very silly, standing with Willow and Xander on the school steps, laughing; there was Kendra, reading a book, unaware that she was being snapped.

A beautiful one of Jenny , Oz playing at the Bronze, Xander with Anya at their engagement party, Willow and Tara dancing - she bet that one went down well with Kennedy! - and a little picture of herself and Faith, taken earlier in the year when they were trying to defeat the First, not aware that the camera was there, talking earnestly about something, both in their training gear, looking hot and sweaty.

Buffy wondered briefly where Faith was at this precise moment. She and Robin Wood had headed for Cleveland to patrol the Hellmouth there. Faith - the word rang again in her head. Why on earth did she keep thinking about Faith?

No, she realised slowly, it’s not the name Faith I’m thinking of, but having faith. Keeping the faith.

‘You’re getting there, Goldilocks,’ Spike’s voice sounded, this time closer, stronger. ‘Don’t waste any more time. I need you, Buffy.’

‘Why not just tell me, you idiot?’ she yelled out loud. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

Faith, it had something to do with - yes, Spike had had enough faith in her future to send her the parcel. He’d believed she would survive, believed in her. Then surely...she froze - was it that simple?

‘I have to believe he’ll survive! ’ she whispered. ‘I have to believe it without any doubts at all.’

Hurrying, she found her overnight bag. At the bottom, still wrapped in the brown paper was Spike’s red shirt and her old stuffed pig, Mr Gordo. Dawn had taken the picture of their mother and Buffy hadn’t had the heart to ask for it back.

Buffy raised the shirt to her lips and kissed it. She could still smell leather and faint cigarette smoke on it. She’d worn it to bed the first night it arrived, wrapping it round her naked body, tying the sleeves tight, pretending it was his arms that held her. She’d slept well for the first time since.....since the end.

‘I’ve got to send a sign. I don’t know who to, but someone, somewhere needs a sign from me that I believe. I’ve got to have faith.’

It was as if the pieces of a jigsaw were finally falling into place. She sat for a moment. Send what? Even more important, send it where? Then, reluctantly, she picked up the battered Mr Gordo and a pair of sharp nail scissors....


to be continued