Things of Beauty
PARTS 1-3
Written by: Ariane
Author's Website
Summary: What is hidden in the heart of love? Beauty, sadness and redemption. Somewhat
AU, vaguely follows the season 7 storyline.
Spoilers: Through "Selfless" & beyond as Season 7 progresses
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss,
Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
Feedback: ariane_five@yahoo.com
Part 1 - City of the Dead
Here she is. So soon. Too sudden. Go away. Need time. Time. Tell her. Tell her. Where’s your knife? Dangerous. Make her leave. Leave. Don’t hurt the girl.
Her hand caresses his chest and he gasps as if burned. He is burned by the tenderness of her touch. How can she touch a dead thing? He tells himself to flee her touch. Instead he presses forward. Leans into the small hand placed upon his silent heart.
“What did you do?” she asks.
“Tried to cut it out.”
“Give me the knife,” she demands.
He hands her the knife and bows his head. She’ll know what to do. Always known what to do with him.
“Make it go away. Please,” he begs.
His eyes are wild with hope. Mad with hope. This time, this time it is not a dream. She’ll do it. Free him. Let him go. No more endless hours thinking, dreaming, hiding from her. From them.
* * * * *
She turns the knife in her hand. Holds it up and examines the intricately carved handle.
“Where did you get this?”
“A present. Present for me. When I found my way home again.” He waves his hand toward the corner of the small dank room. “They said it would work. But they lied.”
“Who’re “they”? She starts to hand him back the knife but thinks better of it and puts it into her purse. “And what’s wrong with you, Spike?”
“Spike?” He starts laughing hysterically. “Who’s Spike?” He falls to his knees and mutters incoherently to himself.
She backs slowly out of the room. She’s never felt such fear before. A sickening smell of death and insanity hangs over him. She can’t deal with this now. Others are counting on her. Live people need her. She can’t help him. Can’t face this; can’t feel this pain now. Her heart is breaking. She reaches behind her, turns the doorknob and begins to open the door.
“You’re leaving. Don’t leave me. Please, oh God! Help me. Help me.” He starts to rise to his feet with his arms extended toward her in supplication.
Tears spring to her eyes. She pauses, steps toward his arms and then she turns quickly and flees the room, slamming the door behind her. She hears his anguished voice calling her name.
“Coward. Coward.” Her inner voice is harsh and accusing as she escapes through the dark twisted labyrinth of corridors beneath the school. As she reaches the exit, she spots several crumpled sheets of paper fallen into a corner next to the stairwell. She scoops them up and dashes up the stairs.
* * * * *
Dawn and her friends are safe and tucked away nicely in their classrooms. Buffy steps out into the blazing California sun and thinks about Xander and Dawn.
They’ll never understand. Never. But all she thinks about is him. Alone in the dark. Hurting and insane. Did she do this to him, she wonders. She hears his voice in her mind, “Who’s Spike?” and wonders just what did he do?
On the long walk home from Sunnydale High, she tries to understand what it means to her now that he is back. But is he back? Who was that tortured being crouched upon the floor? She kicks the dead sycamore leaves which cover the sidewalk. Autumn in Sunnydale, very depressing. No bright red or orange flames of the dying forests, only dull browns and grays, only the sycamore trees dying of exhaustion and heat. The smell of the leaves crushed beneath her feet rises up and almost erases the stench of the small, dark room where she abandoned him. She pushes the thought away. She’s almost home. But where is he?
She steps into the cool darkness of the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water, and then goes out and sits on the stairs of the back porch. The water tastes of chlorine and fluoride and who knows what else. She has a quick vision of a small, clear mountain stream, icy cold water pouring into a deep green pool. She shakes her head and laughs. This water, she thinks holding up the glass, never saw a mountain. Placing the glass down on the porch, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the crumpled papers she found in the school basement. She smoothes out the first page and begins to read. It’s a list of sorts.
Things of Beauty
Mother
Cecily (this entry is crossed out several times)
Autumn leaves
Fire in the sky
Sun breaking through fog
Light
Light
Light
Gold
Golden
Warm
Soft
Buffy
Buffy’s hair falling over her shoulders when she…
The last sentence is incomplete, but she knows where he’s going with the thought. Remembers the moment. She now knows that these are his pages, his rambling incoherent thoughts. But how strange is the title of this disjointed list, “Things of Beauty,” she thinks. When did Spike ever care about anything beautiful? What had he told her that night in the Bronze? “I’ve always been bad.” Had he lied? She shivers in the afternoon heat.
She takes out the second page and reads.
He wakes at dawn
Torn by light
Fragmented
Fire piercing a dream
Fog soft, cool
Warmed to gold
In the flame
Rosy, soft her love
All lost
Lost to him
Death in autumn
Who wrote this? He couldn’t have written this. Not Spike. Not the bloody, vicious, evil, undead demon. Not the whimpering, posturing, lust crazed lover. She immediately thinks of the long, bloody slashes over his heart. He tried to cut it out, he’d said. Cut out what? Cut out who?
She jumps to her feet, and the third page flutters down the steps and lands face down on the grass. She hesitates a moment. Does she really want to read anymore? Does she really want to know? A gust of wind comes down from the eastern hills, captures the piece of paper in its soft nebulous grasp and twirls it up into the sky. She jumps off the steps and tries to catch it. Too late. She stands and watches the paper rise up over the trees and drift away over the houses. Should she follow it? She pauses, and then it’s too late. The paper has disappeared from sight.
Part 2 - Forgetting History
Underneath an overpass, about a mile or so from Revello Drive, an old woman huddles inside a makeshift cardboard shelter. Oblivious to the heat, she is wearing a tattered and soiled red wool coat and in her hand, she grasps a dirty and crumpled piece of paper. She is smiling and chatting to her friend, who is invisible to others, but very real to her.
“Mary, he wrote me at last. I knew he didn’t forget me. Soon we’ll be together, living in one of those nice big houses up in the hills.”
She waves the sheet of paper at her invisible friend.
“No, you can’t have it. It’s mine. From him. My beautiful son. Oh, don’t please! Give it back. Give it back!”
She struggles out of the small enclosure and waves the paper wildly in the air, appears to struggle with her non-existent assailant.
“You can’t have it! It’s mine.”
She collapses on the ground and gasps for breath.
“That’s better. You know I love you, too. But he’s my son. My son. Let me read it to you. Then you’ll leave me alone for a while, please?”
Dearest Mother,
I think you are dead. You must be dead after all these years. How could I even hope to find you, to see you again, to see your beautiful, kind face again? But I will look for you. Can you ever forgive me for abandoning you so cruelly? When I think of what you’ve had to suffer all these years, I just weep. I’ve been so bad. And sometimes I can’t remember your face which is the heaviest burden to bear. I miss you so. You loved me, didn’t you? No one has ever loved me as you. I thought I did it for her. But all she talks about is power. Not love. Or beauty. Though I’m not really sure it’s her. Because things are getting confused and sometimes I don’t remember who I am. And sometimes I wake up and feel as if something hard and vicious has been slithering through me. I’m scared, Mother. How will I ever find you again? I enclose a little poem for you. I have tried to be good, for you. Do what’s right. But I have forgotten so many, many things. But not this --she never loved me.
With deepest affection,
Your loving son, William
Shall I touch your face again?
Shall I ever know your warmth
Tenderness, forgiveness
Again?
Bitter nights, desert days
Lonely infinite hours
Loneliness always
Always
“It’s beautiful. Don’t you think? Don’t you think? Don’t…”
She wanders off down the street, clutching the paper to her breast, mumbling and conversing with the air. She passes by a well dressed man. The man steps aside to avoid contact with her, but she turns to him, looks him directly in the eyes, and speaks.
“He’s a very kind boy. A beautiful boy.”
She smiles and, for the briefest of moments, the man is struck by the beauty of her smile and the depth of her eyes. He shudders a bit, for he feels as if he’s fallen into her, so clear and transparent is her soul shining out through her eyes. Clear and deep and rushing like water tumbling down a cliff, a waterfall. The moment passes, and all he sees now is a filthy, schizophrenic old woman. He shakes his head and walks briskly away.
* * * * *
Buffy and Dawn sat on the living room couch and fought over the remote.
“Give it back!” Buffy complained. “I so don’t want to watch another re-run of Gilligan’s Island.”
She grabbed the remote from Dawn and flipped through the channels.
“Passions!”
She quickly changed the channel and then turned off the TV.
“Don’t you have homework or something?”
“Already done.”
“Shouldn’t you be cleaning your room or doing some laundry?”
“What’s wrong, Buffy? You’ve been acting weird ever since I came back from school this afternoon.”
“Well, excuse me. Fighting evil spirits and re-living my high school years didn’t actually make for a fun day. And what’s this with everyone assuming I’m your mom?”
“Well, you are older…”
“Don’t go there. Yeah. I know. Dishes. Did you do the dishes?”
“Ha! ‘Dishes’ assumes that somebody cooked. All clear on the kitchen front.”
“Bed. You need to get a good night’s sleep. And anyway I have to go out on patrol.”
“Can’t I come with you?”
“No patrolling on school nights, remember?”
Buffy stood up and stretched her arms above her head, then dropped them to her side. She gave Dawn her hand and pulled her up from the couch.
“Come on. I gotta go. So you…” She paused and tilted her head as if she were trying to listen to something. With a puzzled look upon her face, she took a few steps toward the front door then stopped.
“What is it?” Dawn asked. “Do you hear something?” She looked quickly around the room. “Is someone here?”
Buffy turned back to Dawn and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just those evil neighbors across the street playing ‘Grateful Dead’ music again.”
“Come on, upstairs to bed, Niblet.”
Her last word hung on the air between them. They stared at each other. Buffy’s face paled.
“What did you just call me?” Dawn whispered.
* * * * *
“I want a normal life. You know a job. Husband. Kids. A house far away from neighbors trying to recreate their youth.”
Buffy set her mocha down on one of Xander’s blueprints, leaving a nice chocolaty ring on the detailed schematic of the wiring system of the new school.
“More ‘Grateful Dead’ goodness last night?” Xander asked, carefully removing Buffy’s cup off his blueprint. “Ah, Buffy. Working here. Important stuff.” He pointed to the dark ring on the paper.
“Oops! Sorry. No. It’s just that I keep thinking I’m hearing voices. You know. Saying weird things.”
“Hope they’re not saying ‘Must kill Xander’,” he joked. “Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I had my own little strange encounter yesterday.”
He told her about his run in with an old, homeless woman.
“She was holding onto this dirty old piece of paper. She looked right at me and said, “He’s a very kind boy. A beautiful boy. Ha! I’m sure she was talking about me.”
He smiled and then a look of sadness crossed his face. “You should have seen her eyes…She must’ve been beautiful, once.”
“Paper?” Buffy asked. “Where was this?”
“I had to go visit my plumbing subcontractor. His office is over on Buena Vista and Fifth.”
“That’s not far from my house.”
“Yeah. And your point is? Don’t worry Buffy. The wild, raving woman was not headed in your direction.”
“No. It’s just that…I lost something yesterday. Well, forget it. Time for me to get to work. New job. Guiding young minds out of danger.”
“Very scary.” Xander laughed and gave Buffy a reassuring pat on the back. “See you later? Need some company on patrol tonight?”
“Yeah. That would be nice. But lose the suit, okay?”
* * * * *
History. Don’t forget. 800 Charlemagne crowned, 1066 Battle of Hastings, 1431 Death of Joan of Arc. Don’t forget. History. 1629 Charles the First…Death and more Death. 1880 William the Bloody. Sorry. So Sorry. Oh, Joan! Remember. Don’t hurt the girl! Who’s Randy?
Buffy stood in a trance-like state before the entrance to the school, listening to the voice. His voice. Principal Wood strolled down the steps and called out to her.
“Miss Summers! Welcome. Er…you’re tardy this morning, young lady. But I won’t write you up.” He gave Buffy a little wink.
“Oh God! Sorry. I was just…trying to remember something.”
She looked around nervously, almost expecting to see Spike running toward her reciting his history lesson. Was she going crazy? Hearing voices. Well, not voices, plural. Just one voice. His voice. Gotta find him. Now, she thought. Straighten this whole thing out and tell him to take a hike. What was he doing hanging around a school anyway?
“Don’t you have any security guards around here?” she asked.
“Are you looking for another job? Can’t say that I see you strong-arming the criminal types.”
“No. No. I mean…ah…there’s so much to steal. From school. Like books and stuff.”
She blushed with embarrassment. “Don’t mind me. I’m still in parental mode.”
“That’s okay. I probably won’t mind if someone stole some books. That would mean that they might actually read something. No, the only crime we’ve had so far is that someone’s been helping themselves to the paper supplies. An evil student poet, do you suppose?”
“Poet?” Buffy stammered.
* * * * *
“…and then she said that I was fat. And I called her a bitch…because …you know…”
Buffy stared with glazed eyes at the very thin, young woman sitting across from her. Visions of thick, greasy Double Meat burgers danced through her head. She glanced down at her watch.
“Lunch time,” she interrupted the young woman. “Hamburger and super size fries.”
The girl gave her a look of horror. “Oh my God! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Of course!” Buffy exclaimed, “It’s all about power. Power to eat the burgers. Just tell your friend to drop dead. No. On second thought, invite her to lunch. Coupon?” She pulled a Double Meat Palace free Happy Cow Meal coupon out of her purse and pushed it across the desk.
The girl let out a yelp and fled the room.
“Problem here?” Principal Wood peeped around the door.
“No. Just getting down with the advice. She’ll be back.”
Principal Wood flashed her with his dazzling smile. “Well, Miss Summers, that’s it for today. And thanks. You really seemed to have helped John.”
“John?” Buffy gave him a blank stare.
* * * * *
After Buffy finally remembered who John was and reassured Robin, as the principal had insisted she call him, that she actually wasn’t promoting physical violence against bullies, she gathered up her belongings and headed down to the basement.
It took her about fifteen minutes to find Spike’s room. It really was a maze underneath the school, and she thought that perhaps the blueprints that Xander had shown her the other day might not be exactly correct. Either that, or the walls and corridors were shifting about by themselves. She preferred to believe that the blueprints were wrong. No sense getting paranoid.
She paused before the door, her heart pounding loudly in her chest. “What am I afraid of?” she thought. “Not Spike. Never Spike.” She flung open the door and called into the dark room.
“Spike! We need to talk.”
But the room appeared to be empty. She searched the dark corners and found what seemed to be a bed made of cardboard boxes and packing material. Next to the bed was a thick stack of papers and a ‘Sunnydale High School’ coffee mug filled with new pens and pencils. She picked up one of the pencils and noticed that someone had used a knife to sharpen it. It was carved carefully into a razor sharp point. She remembered the knife she’d taken from Spike the day before, and she wondered if she should remove all the sharp, pointy pencils and pens from the room.
“What I am thinking? I can’t hide all the sharp things in the world from Spike. If he wants to find something to poke himself with, he’ll find it. Not my job. Not. My. Job.”
She placed the pencil back into the mug and saw a partially folded sheet of paper on the floor next to the bed. As she stuck the piece of paper into her notebook, she justified the theft to herself. “Perhaps he left me a note.”
* * * * *
A normal job for a normal girl… Good way to drive yourself crazy…You don't belong here…You're something... You're better than this…Walk away with me now…Walk away…Walk away
Buffy sat in the Double Meat Palace and stared forlornly out the window, remembering his words. Remembered how he used to come to her, and stand outside this very window to wait for her. How he comforted her in the nights after her long grueling days. Never complaining about the grease, or how she was too tired to return the favor of his loving. Remembered how he tenderly, tenderly tried to make her feel again. What she was afraid to feel. What she’d always been afraid to feel.
She pulled the folded sheet of paper out of her notebook, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to read this. Didn’t really want to know that he was now totally insane. What was she afraid of? She shook her head, opened her eyes and read.
How shall I name the hours
That pass unnoticed
History is a song for idiots
A stumbling play clichéd and dying
Dry as summer grass
My love will you remember me?
When I am dust beneath your feet
When my arms no longer press
Your sweet and fragrant face
Against my chest,
Against my silent, weary
Undead heart
Against this evil heart
That loved you so?
She read it over three times, and stumbling to her feet, with tears flowing down her face, she walked blindly out the side door of the restaurant, and tripped over an old woman sitting on the sidewalk.
The woman looked up at Buffy and fixed her with an oddly familiar, brilliant blue gaze.
“Have you seen my William?” she asked.
Part 3 - Elegy for a Vampire
“William?” Buffy lies without thinking. “I don’t know any William.” She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a dollar bill.
“Here.” She thrusts it into the woman’s hand.
The woman looks down in amazement at the crumpled bill and drops it as if it is a burning coal. Mesmerized, Buffy watches the dollar flutter down to the ground.
The woman cries out, “It’s covered with blood. Inside. Empty.”
Buffy looks around in confusion. “Are you hungry? Is that it?” She narrows her eyes, brow furrowed, and peers down at the woman. “Are you a demon?”
The old woman smiles, and then her face becomes vacant, her eyes glaze over. She stares through Buffy as if she’s invisible. She tilts her head, listening in the silence.
“Don’t cry, dear. He’s a kind boy. A beautiful boy.” She reaches out to touch Buffy, but Buffy flinches away.
“You’re not real!” the woman exclaims, and then beckons to her invisible friend, “Come on, Mary. There’s bad people about.”
The old woman rises to her feet and, with an amazing amount of dignity for someone in her decrepitly dirty state, she turns her back on Buffy and walks away.
Buffy watches her disappear around the corner. The thought crosses her mind that that could be her in forty years, if she lives that long. Not much retirement money for Slayers. She starts to walk off and sees a familiar looking sheet of paper on the ground. The crazy old woman must have dropped it. She bends down to pick it up and, with a sudden rush of adrenaline, realizes it’s the very sheet of paper she watched float away over the rooftops the day before. The paper is dirty and ragged now, and by the look of it, appears to have been read at least a thousand times. She can’t. She won’t. She will not read it now, she thinks.
“I have had just about all I can take of Spike today.” She shoves the letter in her pocket
* * * * *
After night falls, Spike emerges from one of the tunnels beneath the streets of Sunnydale. There was someplace he needed to get to fast. And if they would leave him alone for a few minutes, he just might get there. He strides purposely down the backstreets and relishing a few moments of clarity, he thinks about what he has to do.
“She’ll never understand. She’ll just laugh. Say I am still beneath her. But she’s in danger, and it doesn’t matter now what she thinks of me. And I wish he’d leave me alone. Him and all his posturing fools. It’s always about power he says. Back to the beginning he says. Well, he’s an idiot. When he’s burned this world to a crisp, what will he have left to do? Long eternity of nothing and no one to torment.”
“And what about the Slayer?” The Master blocks his way. “Think you can protect her? Keep her from dying? She’s right where we want her. Two pathetic, blind fools.”
“Buffy? What about Buffy? Don’t go there. You really don’t want to go there…”
He stops beneath a street lamp and shouts, “You really don’t want to go there!”
A young couple, out for a stroll, tries to hurry past him.
“Excuse me, sir, can you inform me as to where I might purchase a good sharp knife?” he calls after them. They break into a run.
“Now what am I doing here? Surely this dark street is no place for a gentleman of breeding. No telling what kind of nefarious types I might encounter. Must get back to Mother. She’ll be waiting…she…no…no…no…it’s Buffy…Buffy’s waiting…arghh…”
“Would somebody, please god, anybody help me?!” He shouts. He pounds his head against a lamppost. Trying to get the voices out of his head. Suddenly Warren appears before him.
“I say sell the soul to the highest bidder and put yourself out of your misery. To think I used to look up to you. You’re nothing but a wuss. Completely Buffy-whipped.”
“You’re not real. You’re not real.”
“And you are?” Warren snickers and disappears.
* * * * *
He runs into the church and hides. He made a bloody mess of it tonight. Thought he could fool her. Ah, all the blood, the poor, poor man. How much blood was on his hands now? Dress-up vampire, brave helper. Who were you fooling? Stupid, stupid wanker. She’ll never love you now. What’s to love? Murderer. Demon. There’s no choice now. They were right. Hell’s the only place for your kind. But what about her? Is this what she deserves?
Ah, William. Write me a poem. A nice elegy for a vampire. I’m so tired.
“Spike!”
He turns around to face her. For the slimmest fraction of a second, hope swells in his heart. She’s here. For him. Then he looks into her eyes, and he’s falling so fast back down into despair that he sways and grabs on to the pew.
She touches him. Her hand is ice. She is ash.
And he thinks, “Give her flesh.” And he realizes that it’s all she ever wanted. Never saw him. Doesn’t see him now. The spark, the heart, the love. Doesn’t really matter anymore.
“Am I real to you. Is this real?” he whispers.
But it’s all too late. Beneath her eyes, her touch, her blow, he surrenders. Crush bone, crush heart, hope, soul. So tired. And he just wants someone, somewhere to forgive him, love him. It’s time for endings. So he walks away from her. Away from her and into the fire.
* * * * *
It burns! Oh god the fire! Fire inside! Buffy I’m sorry. For you. Did it for you. So sorry. Help me. Isn’t anyone there? Buffy? For you you…
He’s draped over the cross. The acrid smell of burning flesh fills the small church. He is frozen in fire. In his own attempt at self-immolation, he thinks that there’s a path somewhere, that he must follow, or a bridge he must cross. His dream. Was it a dream? A ladder of burning swords to climb set him free. No, not free. Just a messenger. Judas. Climb down to hell, dark warrior. The blades are razor sharp, the steel is molten gold. But he is so tired. So tired.
Can we rest now? Buffy? Can we rest?
“She’s not your friend. You fool. Now she’s knows. She never loved you.” The voice is taunting, harsh. “Dark warrior, indeed.You stupid, stupid git! Now we’re done for! Why’d you tell her?!”
He groans and, with a sudden burst of anger, pushes himself off the cross and tumbles to the floor. He lies with arms outstretched, moaning in pain.
Why does a man do what he mustn't? For her. To be hers. To be the kind of man who would never. . . To be the kind of man.
“I am a dream someone is dreaming,” he thinks and raises his hands and touches gold. Her hair is golden, brushing his face so tenderly.
Do you love me? You know I love you. Do you want me? I’ve always wanted you?
And now she’s taking him in her arms and pulling him down with her to paradise. Her hands are so soft and forgiving against the loneliness of his skin.
“Make me real! This is what you wanted. What you always wanted,” he cries.
It's what you wanted, right?
Her kisses are soft and tender against his ravaged chest. Every place she touches with her skin becomes cool and smooth. She heals him with her lips, whispers prayers against his skin. The love in her voice is shocking and humbling, and if he could die right now it would enough.
To be hers! What I’ve always wanted. What I’ll always want.
He throws his arms about her in joy and grasps empty air.
She wasn’t real. Never real.
Suddenly the door to the church slams shut, and he is truly, truly alone.
* * * * *
Buffy leans back against the church door and slowly slides down into a crouching, feral position. Her logical mind is completely blank. Inside her, welling up from such a dark, horrendous place is a feeling of…love… No. Not love! Pity? Yes that’s good. Pity. She’s gazed into the mirror of his soul and seen her own darkness. Oh God! Why did he do it? She trembles on the verge of collapse. It’s all too deep for her. Too raw and desperate and now he’s going to die, she thinks, suddenly angry.
“I never asked him for that. It’s not my fault. He did it. Did it to himself…He’s crazy, right?”
From inside the church, she hears his voice calling her.
“I can’t. I can’t forgive him,” she sobs and struggles to stand. She swings open the church door and sees him lying on his back, muttering and crying.
“I’m not your girl. I didn’t ask for this!” she shouts.
He falls silent at the sound of her voice and slowly raises himself to a kneeling position. She can see the burns of the cross, the red angry streaks of seared flesh across his chest. But his arms are beautiful and white, strong as he reaches out to her. No one will ever hold her again the way he held her. Worshiped her.
Do you love me? You know I love you. Do you want me? I’ve always wanted you?
“I can’t do this, Spike. Please…” she pleads and slowly backs away.
And she shall look on him with forgiveness…
He gives her a long solemn look and shakes his head.
What was so wrong about loving you?
“The play has ended. The stage is empty.”
His voice is hollow. He turns away from her.
“Spike is dead.”
She gasps and rushes from the church, the door slamming loudly behind her.
* * * * *
Later that night, in her solitary bed, Buffy pulls out the ragged paper and reads William’s letter and poem to his mother and weeps.
Shall I touch your face again?
Shall I ever know your warmth
Tenderness, forgiveness
Again?
Bitter nights, desert days
Lonely infinite hours
Loneliness always
Always
And her last thought as she drifts into a restless sleep is – ‘God forgive me. Who am I? What have I done?”
* * * * *
It’s a beautiful spring day. The green hills blaze with golden yellow mustard blossoms, waves of flaming orange poppies, and splashes of foamy, deep purple lupine. No clouds mar the pale blue sky. It arches up a thousand miles carving into deep indigo space. Her head rests in his lap, and she’s gazing up into his eyes. He’s smiling, and she thinks that she’s never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life. His hand is resting lightly on her forehead, and he’s absently stroking her hair with the fingertips of his right hand. In his left hand he holds a long stalk of a mustard flower, and he brushes the blossom across her cheek leaving a powdery gold trail.
“It tickles,” she laughs.
“I’m blessing you,” he says. “Naming you with the flowers of the field…they toil not, neither do they reap, and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be sparrows or chipmunks?”
She reaches up and clasps his wrist, slips her hand down the sinewy strength of his pale hand and weaves her fingers into his. “Is this heaven?” she asks.
“Hush,” he bends over and kisses her forehead. “This is serious,” he whispers. “Naming is a very serious thing. A beautiful thing.
“You know, don’t you?” she asks.
“Know what, love?”
“I always loved you.”
* * * * *
When she awakens the next morning, her dream is forgotten, but something inside of her has shifted. She’s lost the desperate anger and the feeling of being pulled into a dark abyss. The feeling of happiness stays with her as she jumps out of bed and hurriedly dresses. But as she stands by the kitchen sink, washing the endless stream of dishes, she looks out at the dark and rainy October morning and remembers. Remembers him.
Spike is dead. And will never be loved...
The crystal glass she’s holding slips through her fingers and shatters on the floor. She steps forward, bare feet pierced by the thin, sharp shards. She feels nothing. Bolting through the living room, she flings open the door and races out into the cold rain, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind her.
* * * * *
The church is empty. The candles burnt out. The door stands open, and drifts of dead leaves are scattered across the door sill. The wind is harsh and biting, driving nails of rain onto her bare arms as she pauses on the steps. She hurries through the door and closes it softly behind her. She calls his name, but she knows he is not there. She walks a few feet down the aisle and sees his blue sweater neatly folded on the seat of a pew. With a quick movement she sweeps the shirt off the pew, and holds it to her chest. She paces throughout the church, searching for what she will not name.
“He’s too pig headed to do something like that.”
Her eyes are searching the floor for dust. With a sinking heart, she thinks of the wind and storm blowing through the open church door.
The stage is empty now. But what was the play?
The storm picks up and rattles the windows, moans beneath the door. She shivers and stares down at her bare feet. Where did all the blood come from? And suddenly she feels pain, deep keening pain. Physical pain merges into pure, raw emotional agony. Driving a stake through his heart would have been so much kinder than abandoning him last night, she thinks wildly. Where is he? She struggles into his thin sweater, and as she pulls it over her face, she is immediately calmed by the faint scent of him, lingering in the soft wool. She pushes her hand into the overlong sleeves, and her fingers push out a long, thin envelope. On the front of the envelope, in rolling, elegant script is written –For Buffy.
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