Part 1

He sat cross-legged before the grave, impervious to the cold, damp ground beneath him. His leather duster spread out and away from him and, from Dawn’s vantage point outside the wrought-iron cemetery gates, it looked like the ground had half-swallowed the dead husk that was Spike.

A shiver ran down her spine, but not because she was afraid. She knew that, with Spike in the vicinity, she was safe. One of the only things she was sure of in this sucky world was that Spike would never let anything bad happen to her. Dawn tried not to be too bitter about the fact that Spike’s protectiveness was more about his fixation with her sister than it was about any friendly feelings he had toward her personally. Still, he’d agreed, albeit reluctantly, to explain the resurrection spell she’d attempted to her mom. Which was what he was doing right now.

"Or what he’d *better* be doing!" Dawn thought. "Not like you know so many people who would agree to do this for you, Dufus!" Dawn berated herself under her breath. "Spike the Perv’s probably telling her the latest news about Timmy the doll and not even talking about what I did."

Having allowed that disparaging thought to rise to the forefront of her mind, where it joined other ambivalent Spike-thoughts, Dawn was immediately overwhelmed with guilt. Spike had risked his life keeping her identity as the Key a secret and what did she do in return? Question his integrity and his word. And call him a perv. Dawn looked at her hands, feigned to examine a scab on her thumb, then picked at her cuticle angrily. Finally, still dissatisfied, she resumed staring at Spike’s back.

* * *

"It was a bad idea. I should have known better... I *do* know better. You know that. You always knew that. Didn’t you?" Spike asked, rhetorically, looking down at the matted turf of the new grave. Contemplating the toes of his Doc Marten boots, he tried once more to do as the bite-sized one had asked. After a few false starts, he finally said: "She just couldn’t bear to lose you, couldn’t accept you’d be gone forever. If you could have seen her eyes, the pain in them, Joyce – I’ve seen that kind of pain, felt it too. I couldn’t bear seeing it in her eyes, eating her up inside, turning her into something hard, changing her..." Spike reached deep into the recesses of his mind to find the right word and was instead confronted with visions of his own transformation, his birth into un-life, so to speak. Not all transformations were as drastic as the transition between human and vampire but no change was ever easy, especially when it was foisted on you unexpectedly, during a moment of weakness.

"Changing her irrevocably," he said, completing his thought. Spike scowled. Very few things made sense to him these days and, as the days ticked by, they progressively made less and less sense. Dawn was just a kid, a lonely, lost and misguided kid who didn’t deserve to be dealt such a bum hand.

Chin tucked into the collar of his chambray shirt, he whispered softly: "It was wrong of me to abet her mojo. I’m sorry for that and - I’m sorry you’re gone." After a pause, he added: "I won’t let any harm come to the li’l bit. I promise."

As meekly as possible, he glanced up at the gravestone, half-convinced that Joyce’s ghost would emerge from the grave, fire axe in hand. But only the flat black marble shone back at him in the soundless, shimmering moonlight. He chuckled good-naturedly and the sound that emanated from him - dissipating the silence, startling an owl from its perch high atop an old, dead redwood and making Dawn leap out of her skin - was like the rolling grumble of a motor long left idle. Apparently his good nature, much as his broken ribs and bruised face, was a bit rusty and, like the Tin Man, in dire need of oil.

Spike rose to his feet, every muscle and bone protesting as he did so, reminding him of the torture he had recently endured. Walking was still a very painful activity but he tried as best he could not to betray any weakness in front of Dawn and so he stalked over to the wan, long-haired imp waiting by the gate with what he thought was his customary swagger. In Dawn’s eyes, he seemed as graceful as ever, as graceful as a panther or a mountain lion that had recently been wounded and still walked with a faint limp.

"Squirt, what’re you hiding all the way out here for?" he asked.

"Did you tell her? About me being sorry..."

"About my being sorry," Spike interjected.

"Huh? You weren’t supposed to talk about you being sorry but about me being sorry!" Dawn said, outraged.

"Right! Relax, li’l one. All I’m saying is that you should say: ‘Did you tell her about MY being sorry’. That’s the proper way to say it. Possessive before gerund. Remember that, crumpet." He made ‘crumpet’ sound like crumb-pet. "Once you know the rules, you never forget ‘em," he continued wistfully. "Even when you wish you could," he added, silently.

"I hate rules. Rules are dumb. And since when did you become the fuc... freakin’ grammar police?" Dawn retorted sassily.

"Mum would be mighty impressed with your creative handling of the English language." Spike’s eyes narrowed and Dawn couldn’t figure out if he was truly annoyed at her diction or at the preachiness of his own words.

To be safe, Dawn tossed her head defiantly. "Whatever," she muttered. "You can’t tell me how to live. And, like you ever follow rules! You’re ‘Hello-I-commissioned-a-roboBuffy guy. Remember? Why should I listen to a pathetic loser like you," she said in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster.

Before Dawn could even think of reacting, Spike spun her tiny body around by grabbing her right forearm firmly. Spike was immediately struck by the irony that his action induced only minimal pain; the chip's shocks were nothing compared to what he had endured at Glory's hand – or, rather, fingers. Curiously, because he felt less pain from the chip, his mercurial wrath waned as quickly as it had arisen. Still, Spike used the circumstances to his advantage. The Nibblet was definitely testing him and it irked him no end. She definitely needed to be taken down a peg or two.

As he stared Dawn straight in the eye, he let go of her arm and jabbed gently at her clavicle with a professorial index finger.

"You ungrateful little bin..."

"Be-atch," she supplied, grinning devilish at him.

"Sassy wench," he countered, not able to keep a straight face and his anger evaporating.

"Look, Spike," she said, falling into step beside him, "you aren’t my babysitter and you don’t have to make me into your personal self-improvement project. ‘K? I liked you much better when you weren’t being all... paternal and creepy."

"Yeah? Well, I liked it better when you weren’t asking me to do your dirty spiritual mojo work. Kind of weird getting a soulless vamp to give your dead mum a spiel about your nagging conscience. Don’t ya think?"

He had her there; she had to admit. She was a ‘great big chicken of a chit’, as he would say.

"Spike," she asked suddenly, "do you think there’s, like, a pecking order in heaven?"

"Wicked change of subject, luv. Don’t reckon that I know what you mean," Spike lied. He knew full well what she was asking. And he had no intention of tackling a metaphysical quandary of that magnitude, not tonight at any rate.

"I mean…" Dawn continued, looking away from him, "do some souls have higher standing in heaven ‘cause they are more... good, you know, ‘better’ than other souls?

Silence fell between the vampire and the teenager as Spike pretended to ponder the question. They walked along in silence for a bit.

"Well," Spike said suddenly, "I’m not really in a position to answer such a question. Anything I’d say would be pure speculation. And, in my experience, too much speculation can lead to unattractive, Nancy-boy broodiness. Better not to dwell on such things," he finished cheerfully, dismissively.

"What if she’s mad at me because of what I did? What if I did something and she missed out on going to heaven? What if she hates me now?" Dawn asked in a tiny strangled voice.

"Shit," thought Spike, "why am I such a sucker for the high-drama queens and handkerchief-angst-and-tears gals?"

"There’s only one way to be sure. You’ll have to talk to her yourself, eventually," Spike warned harshly. Seeing the fear spring into her eyes, he continued more gently: "She doesn’t hate you, Platelet. She loved you when she was here in body and she loves you now and forever. That’s the way it is with moms. It’s a rule."

"Written up in the same lame book where you read about those possessive runes?" Dawn asked.

"It’s ‘possessive before gerunds’, you ignoramus. Now, git. We’ve got to get you home before the Slayer has my as... Before Buffy comes home from patrolling."

Spike walked off ahead of Dawn mumbling to himself: "What the hell do I know about pecking orders anyway! Alpha, Omega. It’s all Greek to me. And souls! Don’t even get me started on Plato. That wanker’s little scheme’s clouded the issue for millennia and..." Spike’s grousing dissipated into the night.

As Dawn ran to catch up to the fast retreating, muttering Spike, she wondered if Spike’s mom was in heaven and whether she still loved her son, the vampire.

***

Spike sat before Joyce’s grave reading. It was a few minutes before dawn when he sensed her approach.

‘What! She never patrols at this hour of the day,’ Spike thought. In a sweeping, only partly human gesture, he grabbed his duster and scurried away, limping. Soon his form passed under the umbrella of an apple tree in bloom and its falling blossoms hid him from the gaze of his beloved.

Buffy strolled into the cemetery. The sun, just appearing on the eastern horizon, reflected the beads of sweat that dappled her skin. As dawn rose, she wended her way around her domain, her ‘turf’. Buffy let the soundlessness of the night seep out of her body and gave herself over to the cacophony of the day. She stood, immobile, hair blowing in the warm spring breeze. A mere half hour ago, she’d dusted a lazy vamp as he finally dragged his way home after a night drinking cheap beer at the Bronze and feasting on a nubile undergrad, a ditz stupid enough to invite him into her dorm room. Buffy paused to savour the afterglow of her victory-in-death, then she took a moment to internalize the lingering sorrow as well. All around her, the signs of renewed life burst forth. The sharp contrasts of her life never ceased to amaze her.

When Buffy reached the far side of the cemetery, she walked over to the flowering apple tree. "That's funny," she thought, "I've never noticed this tree before." Buffy smiled when she saw that the tree sported two colours of blossoms. Her mom had always said that if you could salvage a tree, even by some awkward form of grafting, it was worth it. The tree was certainly a strange sight. The blossoms that faced north away from the sun were a dark red, almost burgundy. "Blood blossoms," Buffy named them under her breath. On the south-facing side of the tree, white blossoms peppered the branches and fell intermittently to the ground. The huge tree had snowed red and white blossoms and a curious red and white halo had formed on the green carpet of lush grass.

‘Maybe hybrids are a good idea after all. I definitely wish Mom were here to see this tree,’ she marvelled.

Her nostrils flared as a familiar scent caught her attention. Unconsciously, Buffy followed the scent. It led directly to her mother’s grave. ‘It’s the smell of Home,’ she thought, easing herself onto her haunches. She contemplated her mother’s monument distractedly, making sure everything was as it should be. And then she saw the book, lying there in the damp grass. Buffy picked it up tentatively. It wasn’t soaked through with dew yet.

"That’s weird," Buffy said out loud.

She glanced at the title: ‘The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke translated by Stephen Mitchell’. In the light of dawn, she leafed through the book, casually. Every other page was in German, Buffy determined. The book was well thumbed and opened easily to a page that bore the title ‘The First Elegy’. Buffy gasped as she read the first line:

"Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies?"

Buffy whipped her head from side to side, scanning the area. No one was in sight. Frowning, she looked back down at the words that had leapt out at her from the page. Heart racing, she began to read those words again:

and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror,
which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying...

Buffy closed the book with a snap. She wondered who had left the book here. Angel? She looked once again around the cemetery, though she knew he could not have tarried there in the light of day. Buffy raised the book to her chest protectively, clasping it tightly, pressing it against her heart.

"Isn’t there anybody here?" she said to no one at all, not even herself.

Part 2

Because he ran all the way back to his crypt, Spike was in a great deal of pain by the time he crawled onto his bier. With his cheek resting on the cold stone, he immediately fell asleep, exhausted by thoughts of the Slayer. Her beauty and her pain.

***

Later that night, as he did every night, Spike visited Joyce's grave. Now that the Slayer had changed her patrolling schedule, he had made sure she wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity and had put all his vampire senses on alert to signal her imminent approach.

As he approached Joyce’s grave, Spike's unbeating heart lurched in his chest when he saw his book propped up against the marble of the headstone. He'd hoped that she hadn't seen the book but obviously she had. Spike nodded a greeting to Joyce, then, hand shaking, he picked up the book and opened it to a page that had been marked with a folded piece of loose leaf. In the moonlight and without his glasses, he could barely see what had been written on the paper so he held the note very close to his face. Spike swallowed as he read Buffy’s large and rounded words:

"I don’t mind a bit, luv," Spike whispered to himself as he turned to admire the drooping blossoms of the dual-colored apple tree. Suddenly, he broke into a very sheepish grin. Buffy liked his poetry! Inordinately pleased with himself, Spike retrieved a linty pencil from his jacket pocket and, on the reverse side of the loose leaf wrote:

***

The next day:

"Will? Are you here?" Buffy popped her head around the door of Willow's dorm room. Seeing that she wasn't there yet, Buffy pocketed the spare key and entered the room with a sigh of relief. She really could use a few minutes to herself to ponder things. Somewhat awkwardly Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, feet and knees primly held together, stomach clenched and shoulders squared. "Yeah. This is comfortable," Buffy mumbled under her breath as she relaxed a bit against the mattress. She glanced around at Willow's room, at her bed, and couldn't help thinking: "This is where Will lives her life, where she studies, laughs, cries... makes love with Tara." Running her hand over the bedspread she mused: "This is a bed where love is made, where hopes and dreams come to life and fall dormant... Dormant?" Discomfited, Buffy glanced down at the book in her hands. "Poetry going to your head much lately?" she mused.

As Buffy began to reconsider confiding in Willow, her best friend burst into the room, out of breath, skin glowing, eyes sparkling with energy.

"Buffy! I'm so sorry I'm late. I got stuck explaining King Lear's motivation to a freshman jock and..." Willow's words were smothered as Buffy flung her arms wide and scooped her friend into as tight a hug as she dared administer.

"Buffy? Are you OK?" Willow mumbled into Buffy's hair.

Buffy let her go suddenly and, when she could breathe again, Willow put on her resolve face and said: "OK. Spill, Buffy!"

"It's nothing... really. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I value your friendship. You know. Wanted to put it out there so it's official and all," Buffy stammered.

"Buffy, I know all that. Now, why don't you tell me what's got you all freaked out and spooked."

Buffy handed her the book of poetry she’d found at her mother’s grave that morning. At first, she thought that the owner hadn’t bothered to return for it but then she had read the note folded inside.

"I found this book at mom's grave yesterday morning. I read one of the poems and wrote these comments," she said indicating her initial message, "and then I left the book there last night and when I went back during this morning to see if anyone had picked it up, I found it there again."

Willow stared at the book until Buffy gave it to her along with the note. Willow sat down on the bed and read the notes and the poem.

"This is so cool! And so not you! Not Buffy-like at all." Willow exclaimed.

"Yeah well, two weeks ago you thought a robot was me so I'll take that with a grain of salt," Buffy riposted.

Willow ignored Buffy's comment.

"Who is this guy?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe it isn't even a guy, Will."

"Of course it is, silly. This is so... romantic!" Willow, seeing how uncomfortable Buffy was at her exclamations, started looking at the book itself more closely. Casually, Buffy said:

"There’s a poem written by hand on the back cover." Willow turned the book over and read the poem then she looked at Buffy with a puzzled frown.

"What is it?" Buffy asked, worried.

"Listen to this out loud, Buffy," Willow commanded, hand held out as if to ward off any objections Buffy might have. In a surprisingly strong voice, Willow recited the poem:

"Vintage mystery-lover verse," Willow said, triumphantly.

"What the hell are you talking about," Buffy said, leaping off the bed.

"Buffy. Don’t you think that this poem could be about you? Willow suggested.

"Huh? What! I don’t even know this person, Willow. Besides, the person who wrote that is obviously scared of this Black-Widow gal," Buffy explained.

"Maybe," Willow said, unconvinced. "Buffy. Why exactly did you come to talk to me about this if you don’t think it has anything to do with you?"

"I don’t know," Buffy answered after a long pause.

Part 3

That night:

Spike skewered a piece of paper on a short, thin stick protruding from the ground beside Joyce’s grave. Lost in a reverie, he only sensed her approach when she had already entered the sanctum of the cemetery. As he had done that morning, he ran but this time he ducked behind a large headstone nearby.

Buffy had spotted the dark shadow of a man at her mother’s grave and knew that he had sought cover close by. When she saw the piece of paper sticking out of the ground, though, she decided to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Instead, she read the poem he had left behind:

As she read, Spike took a chance and made a run for the apple tree and the cemetery exit. It was a fatal mistake. She’d seen him and was now pursuing him across the cemetery.

"Hey!" Buffy yelled at the dark retreating form. "Hey! Don’t run away. I’m not going to hurt you. Please don’t be afraid."

The man had reached the sheltering apple tree and was barely distinguishable in the darkness. Spike’s mind raced. He felt trapped and powerless and... slightly embarrassed at having been caught. Embarrassment wasn’t an emotion he had felt in a long, long time. God. Now she would think he was stalking her again and she’d really never want to have anything to do with him.

He said nothing, knowing his accent would be a dead giveaway.

"Are you still there?" Buffy asked gradually walking towards the tree, squinting into the darkness of its umbrella. "Don’t be shy. It’s kinda like we already know each other. Don’t we? Reading the same book and all," Buffy giggled nervously. "Hello?" She took another step towards the tree and Spike slipped around to the other side of the tree trunk, panicked beyond anything he could imagine. He heard her footfalls as she continued her approach and that faint sound calmed him. He reached way back into his memory and said: "Pray tread no further!"

Buffy stopped moving at the sound of these words spoken with a distinctively clipped British accent.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"No. I wish to be left alone." His words, like a haunting refrain from the past, lingered in the fragrant air. He moved to a different position and Buffy saw the flash of a black clad leg. "Please," he breathed, "do not concern yourself with my well-being or my identity. I am neither... here nor there and it will not benefit you in any way to force an acquaintance between us."

"All right," Buffy agreed reluctantly. She was disappointed but respected his wish. She paused and then continued hesitantly. "I’m glad we could at least share in the beauty of this tree. That it survived as a result of a graft... it’s a miracle. Sometimes, things, like people, come together unexpectedly." After waiting to see if he’d answer, she sighed and turned to go: "Judging from your poetry, you must have a very sensitive soul. I hope you can find comfort in your art. I know I did…"

As she turned to go, Spike croaked: "Wait! You are mistaken. I did not write that poem. It is by Emily Dickinson."

"Oh. But it sounded a little like the other poem. I was sure you had written it," Buffy said, straining to see through the darkness.

"Sometimes, things aren't as they appear," he said. Sometimes souls are just illusions, for example, he thought.

"I… I don’t understand… exactly…" Buffy said.

"Like this tree. Have you taken a good look at it?"

"Sure..." Buffy said tentatively, gazing cautiously at the tree. "Is there something… more I need to see?"

"Close your eyes," he coaxed, a voice from the darkness.

"Why do I need to..." Buffy began to protest.

"Please. Just... close your eyes for me," the sultry voice asked, almost pleading.

Against her better judgment and her Slayer instincts, Buffy acquiesced. ‘What am I doing!’ she thought to herself. She could sense his lithe movements in the night and felt him glide in behind her. The hair on the back of her neck rose up. There was something so familiar about the feeling. She had just about labeled the feeling in her mind when she felt his arms reach around her and take hold of her arms, fingers sinking into her leather jacket, and she let him guide her, like a blind person, to the tree. Having submitted to him thus far, Buffy let her senses overwhelm her and any thought of entertaining rational thoughts fled from her mind.

"Place your hands on the tree trunk," he whispered into her ear. Inexplicably, electrical shocks ran down Buffy’s nerves and a weight settled in the pit of her stomach. It had been awhile, but the symptoms of that illness, desire, ran crystal clear at her core.

Spike watched her intently as he remained standing behind her while she placed her fingers, tentatively, on the trunk of the tree. At first she smiled at the awkwardness of having her eyes closed, poised to embrace a tree. Soon she frowned and stepped even closer to the tree, almost hugging its circumference. Using both hands, she stroked the gnarled knobs and twisting bark of the tree’s trunk. It was irregular and... Could it be? Buffy was now stroking the bark purposefully in a manner that made Spike swallow hard.

"It’s not a graft!" Buffy ejaculated, delighted with her discovery. "It’s two trees woven together. Completely entwined. Coarse bark on one side, smooth on the other..."

Buffy felt each tree come to life under her touch. She imagined the sap rising, feeding the blossom-sprinkled boughs; in her mind’s eye, she saw the blossoms metamorphosing into fruit, the trees sagging under the weight of new life.

Drawn by some unknown force, Spike was compelled to reach his arm up over Buffy’s shoulder, brushing her ear and resting his palm against the tree with the smooth bark. As they stood there, rigid with concentration, life and energy surged through both of them.

"I suppose one might call it a truly symbiotic relationship," Spike said, dropping his hand and pressing it against her back, over her soft hair, steadying her trembling but also gently preventing her from turning around. Buffy hardly dared to breathe as she sensed him hovering so close, so very close, behind her. She felt his lips brush the top of her head and she stiffened perceptibly, not in fear, but in expectation. And then she did something completely foolish, reckless even. She backed up against him. She heard his smothered gasp. Only the palm against which she was now resting kept their bodies separated. Bracing herself with her right hand still on the tree, she reached behind her with her other arm; Buffy’s left hand collided with and then latched onto Spike’s left hipbone. "Oh God!" she heard him gasp and feminine pride surged through her. Overcome, Spike rested his forehead on the crown of her head, grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward. Instinctively, she responded and pressed her own forehead against the tree. She couldn’t see him and was hardly even touching him, yet she had never been as fully aroused.

Raggedly, she said: "This is crazy."

As he delicately kneaded her shoulders, trying to ignore the hold she had on his hip, he answered in fits and starts. "Much…" he dropped both hands to her waist. "Madness…" he reached around her and brushed his palms over her already taut nipples. "Is…" his hands drifted to her hips and Buffy’s body, to her horror, reacted by gently thrusting against them. "Divinest…"

"Sense!" Buffy cried, triumphantly, remembering the line from Prof. Lillian’s poetry class.

Called back to reality, Spike removed his hands from her hips and ran for his unlife. For some unknown reason, Buffy didn’t try to follow him or discover his identity. Buffy did not make any attempt to turn around to see him or to follow him. Instead, with her forehead still resting against the gnarled double trunk of the apple tree, she drank in the scent of the apple blossoms mingling with the lingering scent of home.

With his scent.

Buffy’s eyes flew open, senses on full alert. Only the waxing moon witnessed how her fleeting, bemused, desire-filled smile shifted into a look pure shock. There was little doubt in her mind. Home smelled like a Marlboro-smoking vampire.

The End

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