She’d faced monsters of every shape and size, but this made her wish that Andrew had never saved that video he’d made, and it made her wish that he’d never sent it in to those television people. But most of all, she wished she’d never read her letter from Spike to him.

If she hadn’t, maybe she wouldn’t have to be here now, reliving it all.

What was I thinking? I’ve gone from Slayer to “Consulting Producer.” Whatever that means. That letter was private. Those were his thoughts. He wanted me to write it down, to remember. That’s all. He thought that maybe…if I survived it, I might want to tell someone about it. He had no idea, no hope that…he just loved me. That’s all. I had no right to…

She sighed. On second thought, maybe this is what he would have wanted. Let’s face it, if Spike didn’t * actually * exist, someone would have made him up. Someone that bright cannot * not * be alive. Somehow. Some way. She smiled sadly as she walked through the little town. She could almost believe; almost hear him.

Everything looked like a model, with nothing behind it, but…there was something in the air. As if I could ever forget him? This is just stupid. It isn’t even real…

She sighed, taking in the scents of paint and wood as she walked the streets of Sunnydale again, in theory anyway.

The buildings weren’t real, but as she passed the Espresso Pump and the movie theatre, her heart beat just a little faster. Next came the grey metal façade, and the neon sign that called to her. The Bronze, and the things that happened there flashed through her mind. Her breath caught, and she began to believe…

She could almost see him, in this tiny, empty space, on his knees, staring up at her with that glint of longing in his eyes, “What’s it like? Where does it lead you? …That look of peace.”

He looked so peaceful. Does he know what that’s like, now? Can he know?

I know. But, does he?

Does he?

Please, God, let him know.

Maybe if she closed her eyes…

She did, and her skin tingled with hope. “Spike,” Buffy whispered, the hope nearly thick enough to choke her, “Are you here?” It could be real. It really could… She opened her eyes…

…And nothing happened. The place still smelled of sawdust and plaster. No vampires. No tingling sensations…

“In a way,” he said. The voice came from her dreams, warm as a sunset, but it wasn’t real.

Her body stiffened. It wasn’t him, behind her. It wasn’t real. She knew that.

The voice held a smile in it, “You’re standing in the middle of a scaled-down version of Sunnydale, and you’re worried about what’s real? It’s all relative, isn’t it, Pet?”

She turned. And, she couldn’t breathe. There he was, in three dimensions. The height was about right, the hair, and those incredible blue eyes. She knew that they would burn a hole right through her, if she let them. They had before.

She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry, “Who are you?” she asked.

A jagged eyebrow rose, in question, and her heart skipped a beat when he drawled, “Who do I look like, Love? What does your heart tell you?”

The voice was perfect. Her heart knew who this was. But, her heart could be a liar. It told her that she didn’t love him, until it was too late. “Spike?” she squeaked.

He nodded, imperceptibly, “Then, for you, that’s who I am,” his eyes roamed the place, taking it all in. He spread his arms in an encompassing gesture, and she heard the familiar crackle of his leather coat as his arms fell against his sides once more. “Here, amid the paint and dust, I’m a real boy,” his mouth turned up at one corner as he looked at her again, his eyes gleaming, “Or, as real as you let me be. Outside these walls, does it matter who I am?”

Buffy felt herself beginning to blush, “I guess not,” she admitted, softly.

“There’s my girl,” he said.

Buffy blinked. There was something about him. There were no warning bells; this was no vampire standing in front of her. But, there was something… Could it be? She felt a bit lightheaded, dizzy. This was a man, nothing more. And, still…he had saved the world.

Could this have been his reward? Was Spike human now?

Something moved then. His face…moved. It must be a trick. The light…Did he just…wink at me? “Are you the First?”

His head tilted, eyes saddened, “I think you know I’m not.”

If this *is* an actor, they should hire him, Buffy thought. He’s really thrown himself into it. Committed, you know? But then, Spike was like that. All or nothing. He’s really become Spike. “Okay,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “You’re Spike. Who am I?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head, sadly, “Don’t you know?”

“I asked you,” she said, her voice rough and bitter with loss.

“You’re the Slayer,” he said simply.

“Not anymore, I’m not,” she said softly.

“Yes,” his voice was hard with conviction. Hearing it made her heart shudder. He seemed so sure, “you are,” he continued, speaking to something deep inside her, “No one can change that. You can hide here, in this paper dollhouse and pretend that you’re something you’re not,” he seemed to be looking straight into her soul, pulling out the essence of who she was. He was always able to do that.

Suddenly, she did not care that he might not be real outside of this place. Here, he was real. He was Spike, and she was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

She still couldn’t believe that there would be a television show, based on her life. She still couldn’t believe they bought it, that they thought it wasn’t real.

To them, Sunnydale was plaster, wood, and paint. But to her, to Spike, it was so much more than that.

To them, it was real.

And, in the end, that’s all that matters. That I know; that he’s real.

“Love?” his voice pulled her out of the past and back to the present, with him. His hand was empty, extended to her in a gesture of support, “You all right?”

She took his hand. It was warm, and they walked slowly together, down the center of the tiny town, “All right,” she said, giving him a small smile as she looked at him.

He’s amazing. His heart is in his eyes. He really * is* Spike. “I’m Buffy and you’re Spike,” she confirmed, for herself as well as him, “So, now what?”

He shrugged, the leather crinkling as he moved. The sound was so familiar and comforting, “Don’t know, Love,” he said, his eyes twinkling at her, “What do you say we take a tour? See if we can find some nasties lurking somewhere?”

“Okay,” Buffy said, then she asked, her voice tentative, “Spike?”

“Yes, Buffy?”

“Wanna dance?”

He smiled a genuine smile. The kind that can make your face hurt. “For as long as you’ll let me,” he sighed, “As long as you let me.”

END