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Chapter 3
 
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Disclaimer: These characters aren’t mine, I just have my wicked way with them.

Author’s Note: Much thanks to Slaymesoftly, who made this chapter decent after I’d written it while half-asleep. Also, many thanks to my wonderful reviewers.
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It was wet and miserable.

That wasn’t something you got to say often about a dream place like Rome. Buffy decided that she would take advantage.

She couldn’t exactly make plans to go out and party. It was a weekday, full of idle chores. It was a day to just stay indoors, and make excuses to not step outside.

The Slayer did step outside, though. She had new pictures to pick up. As she fumbled with the key to her apartment, she was already sorting through them. She had only two more empty slots in Spike’s album, and she wanted to pick the perfect pictures. The fact that the album was about to be full brought a sense of apprehension.

It felt almost like letting go of something, completing something. But she wasn’t about to let go of it. She had every intention of picking out another album, and then another after that. She would fill photo albums and make memories specifically to show Spike, who, she was positive, was at least occasionally looking over her shoulder.

The thought brought to the surface a memory from their seven days together.. She remembered sitting with Spike on the couch in her long buried living room, picking through photo albums and sharing her childhood memories. He’d listened to everything she’d said with rapt attention, wanting to catch every moment of her life while he still could.

Deep blue eyes, bleached blonde hair, dark eyebrows with a curved scar on one, sharp cheekbones and straight nose…and the lips, the bottom one full and curved invitingly…

Everything about him was unforgettable and unique, but still, time threatened to blur the edges of her memory. As Buffy pushed the door to her apartment open and tossed down the pictures, she wished desperately that she could have just one lasting image of the man who had shaken her world to its core. She was sure that an album dedicated to him should have at least one picture of him…

Reaching for the album, Buffy was surprised when her fingertips came in contact with the table. Frowning, she looked around the entire surface. There were the usual frames, but not the album. Since they’d moved to the apartment, she hadn’t moved from it’s assigned spot, unless it was to put more pictures in.

As if it would sneak up on her, Buffy looked again. She then began to search around the surrounding tables. It had never left the living room, and suddenly, it was gone. It was nowhere to be found.

She began moving the furniture, leaning the tables and chairs over to get a look under them, as if it might have fallen. When it was still nowhere to be found, Buffy felt the beginnings of tears. She held them back stubbornly as she began to rip the cushions off the couch; then tipped over the table it usually rested on. Photo frames fell to the floor and shattered loudly.

“Where is it…? DAWN!”

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Spike stumbled back into his basement apartment, slamming the door behind him. His nerves were shot, and his every movement gave the impression of the heavy consumption of alcohol.

But that had just been liquid courage.

His nerves were shot because he had just read poetry in public for the first time in over one hundred years. It didn’t matter how much of a ‘Big Bad’ he was, he had had no intention of ever facing a crowd like that again.

But they had applauded.

He hadn’t been cast out or ridiculed, so he was feeling all right. The only problem was, he was starting to sober up, and the mission ahead still loomed darkly.

Sighing, he plopped down on the couch, groaning as he rested his head. What little light he had in the room was irritating, but he didn’t want to shut it off. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Spike was pretty sure it was going to be his last peaceful night on earth, and he had no idea how to spend it.

So, why not reminiscing?


Cracking an eye open, he caught sight of the black leather photo album that he had swiped from Buffy’s apartment. He hadn’t looked at it once, just kept it close. The faint scent of her perfume and her skin had clung to it for a short time, before fading away. Buffy’s and Dawn’s smiling faces peered out at him. He’d been a coward about the whole thing, but all he’d really wanted was a piece of the past.

Now, it was the last night of peace he would ever know, and he wanted his Slayer and his Nibblit.

Shaking off his slight stupor, he took the album. He handled it like it was made of glass, the last precious thing in his world.

The very first picture was of the two sisters together. Buffy and Dawn had their arms wrapped around one another, each with a fishing pole. They were supporting one another in their laughter as a fish flopped wildly across both their laps.

Spike couldn’t help but smile. A bittersweet ache rose in his chest as he traced his fingertips across the picture. He had rarely ever seen such joy and laughter between the two of them. He’d rarely ever seen Buffy laugh, at least until the week they had spent together…

He tried his best to push away the thought of the seven days he wasn’t sure were real. It always haunted him. Each time he woke up, he’d imagine his Slayer there beside him, where she had been during that time…she had always greeted him with warm smiles and gentle or passionate kisses…

Then again, there had been that time he’d woken up in handcuffs, with her massaging him and giving his arse cheek a good bite…

Again, he pushed the false memory aside.

The next picture was of all the Scoobies together, glasses raised towards the camera. They sat around a large dining room. Some of the smiles were strained, but they were together, looking victorious.

There were pictures of the two sisters exploring London, but it was the last of those that caught his eye, and nearly blew his mind.

Buffy was standing on the porch of a house in London, between two houses that Spike recognized intimately. The house she was standing at wasn’t familiar, but that was because the house he would have recognized had burned down many years ago. She was standing right where the house he had grown up in used to be.

Spike couldn’t remember ever giving her a last name, or a date or place of birth…he’d rarely ever spoken of his human life. How much research must it have taken for her to find the place of his birth, of his human life? He felt the emotion rise at the very thought that she would have gone to that much trouble just to know him better.

“Get over yourself, you git, it’s probably just a coincidence…”

Against his will, her voice rose up from his memory, stirred by the touching picture. ‘I don’t care about that…’ she had whispered to him. ‘I don’t want those places…or those things, or that time…I don’t want to think about next month, or next year…’ She had squeezed his hand hard and kissed his fingertips with tender desperation. ‘I just want what’s right here, ok?’

He forced the voices away, holding back the tears that threatened to well with each turn of the page. It started to become eerie, when each picture began to remind him a little of that week…

Finding a picture of Buffy climbing a mountain with not a single rope to hold her, he remembered when he’d told her to ‘climb a mountain and forget your gear…’

There was a picture of Buffy and Dawn in the midst of a pillow fight in a hotel room, with feathers flying everywhere. The two were jumping on the bed and looked to be going all out. ‘When you and your sister get into a tussle, I’m going to be placin’ bets…’

The next picture was obviously caught much by the Slayer’s embarrassment. She was on the beach, in the bright sunlight, with the water covering her lower body…the water being the ONLY thing covering her lower body. Her arms were crossed defensively over her breasts. Her hair was shining in the sunlight, even as her face was flushed and red from embarrassment and anger. She was shouting at the person taking the picture, while she tried to flee the scene.

‘And one of these days, I’m goin’ to see you on a beach, and be walkin’ right beside you on it, right in the sunlight. I’ll be the one whispering dirty thoughts of skinny dipping into your ear.’

Swallowing back his rising hope at the familiarity of it all, he flipped aimlessly through the last couple of pages, which didn’t have any pictures yet. When he came to the very back of the book, his fingers froze, and he was sure his heart had begun beating again. There, at the back, etched in silver:

‘For Spike’

Then, in much smaller silver writing near the very bottom were the words ‘…For Whom We Dance.’

“Bloody hell!” He threw the album from his lap and slammed his foot hard against the coffee table, sending it sailing right into the television. He didn’t even notice the destruction as he stood panting for unneeded breath, his fingers moving through his hair and destroying the hold of the gel.

It was real.

Everything he and Buffy had done during their seven days together came flooding back; every kiss, every caress, every tender moment of joy and laughter…

Spike had gotten a second chance with the Slayer. He’d made love to her; he’d taken her to the mall in a whimsical trip of mayhem. He’d said everything he’d wanted to say to her, and heard everything he’d ever dreamed of hearing. They’d had a rooftop picnic, went skinny-dipping, they’d made love even more, and he’d died for a second time, practically in her arms…

And then he’d come back to life, decided to be a coward, and left her dancing in another man’s arms.

“What have I done?”
 
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