You'll see it all clear
How steep the fall is
How long the way back is
* * *
Buffy is running with all she’s got. The icy night air hurts her throat and all she hears is the sound of her own hard breathing; her feet pounding on the pavement.
She has to bend over and catch her breath before opening the door. She thinks she must look like one of those athletes after a 100 meter sprint. So much for slayer speed when her lungs can’t even catch up.
When she finally pushes the garage door open and steps inside she’s disgusted by what she sees. The walls are covered with crosses, different styles and sizes - the work of an obsessed. It’s well planned; strategic. It makes her sick.
He does not belong there.
She turns her head to the left and sees principal Wood half lying, half sitting on the floor. He’s in a bad shape, the bruises forming dark flowers on his skin; the blood spatters of color. He’s swollen and barely conscious.
Buffy looks desperately for a sign of someone else. A bleached, black-clad someone else. A hint. Anything.
No, not anything. Not that mess on the floor, that mud and gravel from outside, dragged in by the ragged soles of their shoes, that could easily hide his - No. She’s not going to say it. Think it.
“He’s gone.” Comes a muttering from her left.
Big panicked eyes find Wood’s and she steps back, head spinning.
No. No, no, no, no.
She gulps for air. Something close to a sob escapes her lips but the feeling of not being able to breathe turns it into a moan. Not of the good variety. Not like those he used to bring out of her.
She stumbles backwards, turns around quickly, leans against the wall to regain balance and bumps into one of the crosses on the wall, pushing it nearly off its hook.
She pulls her hand back quickly as if burned, [like his would have been] and runs out the same way she got in. Takes a few wobbling steps. The thoughts are crowding her head making her want to scream out in despair.
He gone. - Spike’s gone. - Dead. - Dust. - Oh my god, he thinks I did it - wanted him - if I’d come sooner - why didn’t I - Giles - how could - gone - left me - alone - I’m alone.
She stops.
Alone.
And she runs. Because she knows no other way. She runs like he never would.
Her hair is coming down from the tight braid at her neck, irritating the skin on her face; her throat hurts more as she runs faster and the air cuts deep. The world swishes by, she’s merely a shadow now. A wind blowing by tearing up the old leaves.
She runs.
Not sure where she’s going [away] not sure what she will do [leave].
It’s too much to handle. The pain. The loss. There’s a hole inside of her now she never knew he filled.
She can’t stand the emptiness.
Before she knows it she’s standing outside her house. Looking in at her friends like Scrooge on Christmas Eve. Dawn and Andrew are arguing. The boy holds up what seems to be an empty pack of cookies and is glaring at her sister. Giles comes in to tell them to stop. Giles.
How dare he? What gives him the right?
‘This is the way wars are won’?
She can feel the anger starting to boil, spreading and she marches up the front steps ready to kick the door in if she has to. But it’s her house and the door is unlocked. She wishes Spike had his crypt with the door that followed, so that she had something to take out her anger on. Kick it off its hinges like she used to. But then she realizes.
Spike’s gone.
He will never have another door for her to kick in. She giggles hollowly at her own thoughts.
He’s dust and you’re thinking about his door.
Her giggle soon turns into a sob and she breaks down on the porch, her legs giving in beneath her.
Her tears are running freely now. She blinks them away as they cloud up her vision. Nose is running too. The back of her hand will have to do the cleanup.
It doesn’t help, she thinks. It doesn’t help that you cry.
And then, the world begins to fade away. Numbness is taking over. Because as always, she has to be strong.
She rises to her feet and feels taller than ever because the journey there was so long. Dries her tears. Straightens up. To not let them see.
She goes inside, almost limps into the living room as if he was some crucial part of her that left a mark.
Giles is speaking but stops as soon as he sees her. Her head is bowed down; her cheeks tearstained.
Dawn’s worried inquiries go unnoticed by both of them.
Buffy looks up, meets her Watcher’s eyes. Her mouth is slightly ajar, her green depths full of despair.
She shakes her head. Frowns. Swallows.
She can’t bring herself to say it because she is sure she would lose all composure.
More people gather in the living room. They must have heard Dawn’s high-pitched voice. To Buffy it’s not louder than a whisper, she can’t hear the words that are flowing out.
A group of Potentials, all young and insecure, yet to gain the natural strength that comes with slayerhood, are looking nervously at their almost catatonic leader. Glances, quick and worried. Someone is asking what’s going on, but no one has a good answer.
That is when the door is thrown open and a vampire with an invitation steps in, his duster billowing around his feet. He does not notice the crowd in the living room, but shouts up the stairs, annoyed.
“Come down here, Slayer! If you think that’s all it takes to off me you’re bloody wrong!”
She freezes. His voice, familiar, breaks through the haze in front of her eyes, and even though it’s harsh now she can hear how soft it can be. She does not know if she has the courage to turn around.
He spots her first. Takes a couple of fast strides up to her, still not noticing how the time seems to have stopped in that room, all of them standing still, watching them curiously.
“There you are. If you wanna finish me off, be my guest. Bring your stake in and we’ll go outside. Right now. Have a tussle, yeah? But sending your new boy soldier to dust me, Buffy that is-”
She turns around and he forgets what he’s about to say. She looks at him with such wonder in her eyes, that he doesn‘t know whether to laugh or cry.
Indescribable relief washes over Buffy. She takes him all in. The golden, almost white hair, tousled at his forehead, the worn leather duster that used to serve as cover to their sweat-slicked bodies, the heavy boots and the tight t-shirt hinting the muscles underneath. Then there’s the new addition, Wood’s work. The nasty cut on his cheek, the swollen lip and the brown burn mark on his jaw.
She’s motionless. Wants to run up to him, throw herself at his feet, maybe her arms around his neck? He would lift her, swing her around, in joy, overwhelmed to see her. And she would kiss his soft, pink lips and they would taste of salvation.
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Her friends’ eyes are on both of them, staring and she wants to yell at them to mind their own business.
“What happened, luv?” His voice has a softer tone now, but it’s raspy from yelling. He tilts his head, looks at her intently. He grows unsure. “Did you know?” he asks but it’s evident to him that she didn’t.
Relief. Oh lord, how good that feels. He laughs softly at his own stupidity. She would never plan something like that. She would do it herself, all about fair play and ‘do we really need weapons for this?’
Buffy lets out a gurgling laugh. How stupid she was. Wood could never kill him. Not Spike. Not William the Bloody, the slayer of Slayers. But a voice in the back of her head reminds her: ‘all it takes is one good day.’
She’s starting to feel wobbly again. She must have leaned a lot forward because Spike has moved up to her, grabbed her upper arms and caught her fall.
Huh.
It’s nice, feeling his hands on her. She leans in, looking down at their feet, one of his ones in between hers and she smiles as she rests her forehead against his chest.
Spike is unsure of what to do, but prays to God that this moment will never end. He brings his right hand over her shoulder blade, along her spine, down to the small of her back and lets it rest there. The other tucks a loose stand of golden hair behind her ear, lovingly.
Buffy’s voice is weak, but it speaks of truth when she tells him, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”