DECEMBER 22, 2027-NEW ENGLAND-

“How could he possibly be this fast? He’s sick, and he just left Willow…Are you sure he went this way?”

Oscar was at least thirty feet ahead of her and gaining ground by the second, when he growled back impatiently, and she could see the amber glow of his eyes sparking in the winter night, “He’s my family, I’m sure! And, he’s a vampire; of course he’s fast! You, of all people, should know that!”

“I do! It’s just…when I’m sick, I can’t fight my way out of a wet paper bag!” she huffed as she followed Oscar making the familiar left turn onto Myrrh Road. This was good. * At least he’s headed home. *

Seeing her home in front of her, she gained speed, quickly outrunning Oscar. Buffy burst through the back door, ready to face whatever she had to. * If I’m too late… If he’s… *“Oh, thank God!” she whispered, “When Willow told me…”

Her heart was pounding when she found him, and she wondered if he could hear it. His back was to her as he sat at the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped in the loose robe Joni had given him for Christmas last year, with its stripes of orange, yellow and blue- so much like the rainbow he’d painted on the wall of the room she’d had in Los Angeles- the room she had barely seen- intent on what was spread out in front on him.

The robe was just a way for him to feel close to her, the way he had been when she was small. They hadn’t been close in the last three weeks, and he needed the familiar now, just as he had then. But, Joni stayed away. Out of fear, she supposed.

She knew why Joni stayed away. Joni didn’t want to face the possibility of losing him. So, if she didn’t acknowledge it, her fear, it couldn’t exist. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

Buffy understood that.

“Spike, you scared me,” Buffy whispered, edging closer to him and feeling Oscar’s presence too, flanking her, ready to protect her if he needed to, “You can still put me to shame, you know that?” she teased, “Can outrun me any night of the week. Which only goes to show how badly out of shape I am,” she tried to hide her fear under something familiar, “But, you should be in bed. Come on, I’ll help you…”

Spike said nothing, his head bowed as though he were praying. He did that now, sometimes, when things made no sense to him.

She looked at Oscar, who seemed just as shocked and relieved as she was, to see him sitting there. He was as lost as she was, and it showed on his face.

Oscar was right. She knew he didn’t have long now. He was thin. He hadn’t eaten in weeks, not since before he’d awakened-when she smashed that amulet. And, the fever was back. That had sapped his strength even more. Just how Spike had managed to drag himself out of bed, let alone run a ten-second mile, was beyond her understanding.

Buffy heard the rustle of paper and caught sight of the thin line of smoke as it traveled to the ceiling. She held her breath and hoped he knew she was there.

“Spike…?”

“Can’t let her see…” his voice was strained and rasping, distracted, “I have to burn…like I should have, years ago.”

Buffy shot Oscar a worried look. “Hallucinations?” he hissed, questioning her.

She shook her head. No. This was worse.

“Burn what, Spike?” Buffy asked, her voice quiet with hurt and fear.

“Me,” he said simply, “I’m gone anyway. Not what I was. Not…”

Buffy got close enough to the table to see what he was burning, and she nearly choked on her tears at the sight.

His journals. The one thing that had helped put his mind back together after Joni was kidnapped and he spent years in that Hell. He was burning them.

Buffy stood beside him now, quiet and careful not to startle him. She looked at the bits of paper, blackened at the edges as the fire consumed them and left nothing but ashes.

She had to blink away the tears. * His life- reduced to ashes. God, he’s so much more than that. *

“I know a few things about you, Spike. Remember, I was with you that day, on the Hellmouth?” Buffy asked him gently, lingering near him, touching his shoulder lightly, “I know what you are, Spike. You are a husband. You are a father. You’re a fighter, and you’re one Hell of a friend.”
****************************************************************************

DECEMBER 22, 2005- LOS ANGELES-

Oscar remembered that day, and hoped that he could be as good a keeper, as good a friend to him and his Buffy as he had been to him, and Mary.

It wouldn’t be long now. Oscar could sense the dawn coming, even in the darkness of the old building.

He had to be certain his fledgling could do without him; be on his own, and teach her, assure her that this was a good thing, something that would keep the Slayers strong forever.

Oscar crouched in front of the weeping vampire, and that was an image he never thought he’d see, not from Angel, surely. But then, it was poetic justice, to see that.

He picked up the toy bunny, and gave it to Angel, “You understand now, don’t you, Angel?” Oscar asked, “Why it had to be this way?”

Angel nodded, unable to speak.

“Good. You know how this works. It’s not like this is new to you. Tomorrow night,” Oscar said, “promise me, you’ll go to them. You’ll tell her, make her see. This is good,” he nodded, his blue eyes twinkling in the dark, “Change is good.”

Angel nodded, finding the familiar in a different form, “I promise,” he said, “I’ll do it. For her, and for you, Spike.”

Oscar smiled, “Good,” he said, sighing. The dawn was coming, and he knew he was headed toward the light. He stood, and gave Angel a wink, before turning and walking out of the protecting darkness, into the winter morning, “I have to go,” he said, softly, with a touch of both longing and laughter in his voice, “Don’t want to be late. I’ve got a date-- with a beautiful little girl. My legacy. My little girl. It’s the circle of life you know.”

As the sun rose, Angel’s heart ached. But, he knew that he’d been right. Things died, and things lived. That was the way the world worked.

And, tomorrow night, he would tell them. He would make them understand.
***************************************************************

Willow looked at the map of Los Angeles that lay on the floor, and blinked.

He wasn’t there. She’d searched for every kind of demon she could think of, and in every dimension, but no matter what she tried, she couldn’t find him.

She looked up at Buffy, “I’m sorry, Buffy,” she whispered, “Spike is right,” Willow hated to see the hate and loss settle in his eyes; she’d seen it once before, the night she’d resurrected Buffy. Oh, he hated her then, and he did now, “Whatever ‘soul” Spike may have had, is gone now.”

Suddenly, Buffy heard nothing. Nothing except the soft cry of a little girl and the father she had lost.