Unspoken

Post-The Girl In Question
(This replaces Power Play and Not Fade Away-- that is, those events happen a little differently.)
R
Joss owns 'em, I just love 'em up when he's too mean to them

Since I moved to Cleveland, I get a lot of junk mail. That's because Dawn orders from catalogs, so we've ended up on every mailing list in the world. Every day I come home from class and mount the steps of my wooden porch and open my mailbox and pull out a big handful of mail. The magazines I stick in my bookbag to read during lunch --I mostly lunch alone... at the community college all the students have their own lives, no room for new friends. The catalogs I sort out for when Dawn comes home from Ohio State, which hardly ever happens lately (I think she has a boyfriend, but she isn't telling). And any bulk mail envelope gets tossed right in the trash.

Now I stand in the foyer and sort and toss, and in the end I'm left holding a single manila envelope. It has actual stamps affixed to the corner, and my name and address printed in actual ink. Maybe they were even printed by an actual human hand, though since the lettering is so precise, it could have been a machine. There's no return address, but there's something inside. Not just paper. Something a little heavy. I hold the envelope up by the corner near the clasp and the something slides to the opposite corner.

I am just holding it, wondering if demons have learned how to make real small letterbombs, when Giles walks down the stairs, the afternoon sun glinting off his glasses. He's here to set things up for the new slayerette coming for training -- and also to see me. He says he misses me when he's in London and I'm here. It's a big deal for Giles to say that, I know. I mean, he's not the most demonstrative guy out there, and I'm not either, and there is still that ... that thing between us, the thing we never talk about. But he's smiling at me as he comes down the stairs, and I tell myself again to let go of the past, to live in the moment, to let bygones be bygones, all that.

So I smile back, and Giles ask, "How was your history class?" and it's almost like old times, when he was the closest thing I had to a father.

"Okay," I reply, and since he's still the closest thing I have to a father, I give into the urge to brag. "I got 19 out of 20 right on the exam."

"Very good!" He pats me on the shoulder as he went past. "Let me make you a celebratory cup of tea."

"Make that a cup of diet Pepsi, and you're on." I trail him into the kitchen, answering absently when he asks what the exam covered. I am still regarding the manila envelope suspiciously, but it hasn't come forth with any of its secrets yet. At least it hasn't blown up in my hands.

You probably think I'm paranoid. But Cleveland demons are a lot more organized than the ones in Sunnydale. There's a mob boss at the top of the demon pyramid, a Wehoe, and I worry all the time he's going to figure out who the Slayer is and find some sneaky indirect way to get me.

"What do you have there, Buffy?" Giles asks, and I hold up the envelope for him to see. "Aren't you going to open it?"

I feel sort of silly, holding an envelope away from me like it's radioactive. Like I'm scared of it.

I'm the Slayer, and I don't get scared. Out there, at least, in the killing fields. I'm good at my job and I know it. And when I'm in a cemetery or abandoned warehouse, kicking and chopping and staking, I ... well, I don't feel so alone, you know? No. You don't know. How could you know? All I mean is, I came out of retirement and started slaying again last year because... because I felt I had to. For him. You know. Like when I'm out doing what we used to do all the time, I'm doing it for him. Almost with him.

Him. Never mind. He's not around anymore. He hasn't been around for a long time. Years. But when I'm slaying, I kind of feel like he's still there. Guarding my back, like old times.

It's just all the rest of the time... I live with this sort of low-grade dread. It's not intense enough to be fear. I don't know. I'm just waiting for something to happen all the time. And it never does. I just wait and wait, and it never happens. The beast in the jungle never strikes. (That was some story we read in American Lit 201. The Beast in the Jungle, by Henry James. The protagonist waits and waits for something important to happen, for the beast in the jungle to strike, and it never does, and then he realizes it already has and he missed it. "A cautionary tale," the professor intoned, and I thought for sure she was talking to me.)

So I put the envelope on the kitchen table and undo the clasp and stick my hand inside. No bomb. Just a piece of paper -- and a small gold key.

As I stare at the key, Giles sets the glass in front of me and sits down opposite me with his teacup. "What is it?"

"I don't know. A key."

He reaches over and snags the piece of paper and give it a good hard Gilesian study. "This is a property deed. Made out to you." He looks up. "Did you buy an unimproved lot? On Bellwood Avenue?"

I grabs it out of his hand. "Of course not. Why would I buy an unimproved -- " But there's my name right there as owner. "Maybe that's what the key is for."

"Unimproved means no dwelling structure."

"It's a puzzle," I agree. The key is cold in my hand. "We probably ought to go check it out."

I expect him to say What do you mean, we? But Giles isn't like that. He's still sort of my Watcher, which means I can expect him to Watch while I go check out potential danger.

He takes a contemplative sip of his tea. "I thought you had a date."

"Tonight."

"Yes. That means an hour in your closet, sorting through clothes and swearing and discarding them, and then two hours at the mall spending most of your monthly salary on -- "

"I will wear something I already own." Like I said, Giles is the closest thing I've got to a father, worse luck. "And if that doesn't work out, if we go now, I'll have plenty of time to shop."




Bellwood Avenue isn't far from my house. It dead-ends at one of the Broadwood cemeteries, but then, a lot of streets in Old Brooklyn dead-end into one cemetery or another. That's why I got a house in this neighborhood, because there are so many cemeteries. And the hellmouth itself is just a mile or so away, under an old stockyard.

Bellwood is a typical Cleveland street– lined with maples, separated into small lots with little brick bungalows. We cruise down in Giles's rental car, looking for the right number on a mailbox. But it turns out that there isn't any number, because there isn't any mailbox. There's 4342, but beyond that there's just an high brick wall. It's actually part of the brick wall that lines this side of the cemetery, and it forms a small square where a yard would be. I open the car window and look up, but I don't see any evidence of a house behind that wall. Unimproved lot, I remind myself. Big deal. Not like I scored in some church raffle and won a new house.

It's sort of weird, a bricked-in lot right here in this neighborhood. It probably used to be part of the cemetery. Maybe it's where they buried the unconsecrated bodies -- the suicides and the unbaptized babies.

Giles pulls to a stop in front of the wall, and we get out. Only then do I notice the old wooden arched door set in the middle of the brick wall. I feel in my jeans pocket for the key, and walk over to the door. He's right behind me, and I hear the quiet snick of a blade being withdrawn from a scabbard.

I've already got my stake in hand. And just like every time I draw wood, I hear that seductive, dangerous voice in my head: Lesson the first: a Slayer must always reach for her weapon...I've already got mine.

The door is gray with age, but the lock is new, bright and brassy. I shove the key in, and the door swings inward, and with a deep breath, I enter the brick-walled yard.

It's cooler in here than back out on the street -- cool and sweet-smelling. I'm on alert, of course, glancing around, corner to corner, smelling deep. But the fragrance of flowers is all I breathe in. And the colors of flowers is all I see.

It's a garden. A little walled garden. That's all. No demons, no tombstones even.

I hear Giles sheathing his blade. I hear the buzz of bees. I hear the quiet trickle of water. I hear the door swinging shut. I don't hear the noise of traffic anymore, or any city sounds. It's quiet here.

Here in the garden.

I take a tentative step onto a flagstone. There's a path that leads in a curve through the flowerbeds, and without much conscious thought, I follow it. Three steps past the bluebells, along the peony border, two more steps past a couple little bushes with bright pink flowers– I wish I knew more about flowers. They are pretty, even if I don't know all their names.

I stay on the flagstoned path, my jeans leg brushing a crooked row of daisies, and at the back, in the corner, is an old cherry tree. (I do know trees, because I had to do a leaf-collection project in 10th grade.) Underneath it is a bench made out of logs. It's rustic and pretty and I find myself taking a seat there and looking out at the garden.

Giles is still prowling around, hand on his scabbard, looking for danger. But there's nothing here but flowers. Oh, there's a little pond in the opposite corner, with one of those little electric waterfalls they sell at the garden stores. I guess a sea-monster could come jumping out of there. And there's that old brick wall surrounding us, right up against the cemetery. But it's the middle of the afternoon and all the cemetery-bound demons and vampires are probably fast asleep.

It's safe here.

Giles eventually agrees, and comes over to stand on the path in front of me. "Someone gave you a garden," he says, his voice carefully noncommittal.

I let the words sink in. Someone gave me a garden. Someone made this garden and gave it to me. "Who?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. The plantings are recent, I can tell that much. So someone has gone to a great deal of work this spring." He turns and surveys it, the mix of shrub and flower, the intensity of the colors. "It's rather like a cottage garden, like the ones back home."

"Only there's no cottage," I point out. "And it's in Cleveland. Next to a cemetery. What does it mean?"

Gently he adds, "Perhaps it's a reward, Buffy. A thank-you from someone you saved."

I breathe in. The air tastes of serenity. Gratitude. Can that be it? I've saved it hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in my time, but few stayed around long enough to thank me. I don't do it for the thanks, anyway. "It's nice."

That is inadequate, to say the least. Giles walks over to a pot full of pansies, and I see the sunlight filtering through the cherry leaves to dapple the stone at his feet. This feels magical -- but not magical like Willow. Just... oh, magical in a metaphorical way. Special. The air is golden and green around me, and the ground is mossy, and everywhere I look, I see color -- pink and purple and yellow and red. Flowers everywhere.

"Later I'll check the records for previous owners," Giles says as he starts towards the door. "But now I'm going to replenish my tea supply at that grocery down the street. I'll be back soon."

And he leaves me alone. He knows I want to be alone. And all of a sudden, I just forgive him. Oh, the hell with it -- with all my grievances against him. He came here to the garden with me, and he left me alone when I need solitude, and he's coming back. He's Giles, and I guess none of the rest of it matters anymore.

So I sit there and listen to the little waterfall and watch the peonies swaying in the slight breeze, and I don't think of anything at all, really, until Giles returns. And then I rise and brush the tears off my face and find the key in my pocket. And then I lock up and we go home. I have a date, remember.

I have a new boyfriend, see. His name is Josh Hogan, and he's a reporter at the local TV station. I won him. No, really. The news show did a Cleveland takeoff on The Bachelor, and Josh was the bachelor, because he's the best-looking of all their reporters. And he's a bachelor, of course. So there was this whole weekend where he hung out with a bunch of bachelorettes, two cameramen taping every moment. Faith was visiting, and you know Faith. She had us both signed up before I could tell her to go jump in a lake. She was pretty sure she was going to win -- she's confident that way. But it didn't take too long to figure out that Josh wanted more from a girl than two impressive breasts and three double entendres and four unbuttoned blouse buttons. He wanted, he said right upfront, a girl he could take home to meet his mother.

Well, Faith's not dumb. She knew at that moment that she was not the Bachelor's ideal Bachelorette. But she decided I was. And so she set about sabotaging the other contestants. I had an inkling what was going on -- I mean, all those other girls having PMS the same moment and getting into a catfight? I don't think so. I think she was riling them up, the way she did with the slayerettes when she wanted to take over leadership. Maybe it helped, I don't know. Josh told me later that he knew from the first moment I was the one for him, and he just talked with the other girls for the sake of the show. I believe him. I mean, I felt it from the start too -- a specialness between us. Like we were soulmates or something. Like we communed on some deep level. You know. All that stuff.

The show was just supposed to end with him choosing (me) and a fancy dinner at a restaurant that had paid dearly for the publicity. But the next day he called me, and we've been going out ever since. It's really nice. It's like how I felt when I was first dating Riley, that there really was a chance for me to be normal, to have a normal relationship with a normal guy. Not that Josh is just normal. I mean, he is good-looking in a great All-American way, like so many of the guys here in Ohio. He's kind of a big guy, so he makes me feel nice and petite. He's got big brown eyes and a wide smile, and his hair is dark and flops over his forehead, and he's always pushing it back. Messing it up. He's not the usual blow-dried TV reporter, believe me. But he's a great listener, which I guess is a useful trait when he does interviews. Sometimes I find myself telling him really personal things, like how I resent Dawn because Mom loved her better (not more -- Mom wouldn't love her more... but they got along so much better). And how I thought maybe I had a learning disability or something, because I always did so well on standardized tests but never got grades good enough for the honor roll.

I haven't told him about being a Slayer. I mean, that would open up all that stuff rational college graduates like him wouldn't believe– vampires and demons and ....

Anyway, I've told him all sorts of other private things. So it's not like I don't trust him.

He just has two hours between finishing the evening news and doing standups for the late news. So we just go to dinner at a restaurant near the station. We eat Italian, and I go ahead and have several pieces of garlic bread, because he's got to work and won't be coming home with me tonight. So it's okay if I reek.

Besides, I think, it'll keep the vampires away. Except that is just a myth. Or at least that's what Spike used to say as he ate handfuls of Dawn's special garlic-butter popcorn. Garlic didn't bother him, he always said, plus it seriously lowered his blood cholesterol.

That was Spike's idea of a joke. Dawn's too. She just laughed and laughed.

Josh is asking me something about my day, and I almost tell him about the garden, and then I realize that he'll probably ask to see it, and — and I don't want to take him there. I tell myself it's because I don't want him speculating how I got it. But really, it's because the garden is my place. Just mine. Just for me.

So instead I tell him about the history exam, and about my Napoleon-worshipping professor, and eat garlic bread. And when we come out of the restaurant, we have to run to his car, because it's started to rain.



The next day, I end up taking Xander there. It's noon, and he's on his lunchbreak, so when he meets me there, he's got a burger in his hand, and a french fry sticking out of his mouth. I unlock the door and ask him to look at the work on the planters-- who could do that, and when it was done. And that waterfall. He starts walking along the perimeter of the garden, pausing here and there to touch a planter box, to test a joint.

"What do you think of the workmanship?"

He shrugs. "Amateur. But it gets better. See?"

I rise and join him by a raised area held back by railroad ties. "What?"

He points to the juncture between two pieces of wood. "He's learning. Back there, he couldn't get the joints flush. But now, he's figured it out. Got some potential."

I see the same thing with the planting. The gardener must have started along the back wall, because that's where the beds are the most disorderly. It looks like he got a bunch of seeds mixed up and just gave in and jammed them into the ground all willy-nilly. The colors even clash -- red and pink and purple all mixed together.

But over there, by the door, there's this cool effect, like a rainbow of pansies, yellow and then pink and then red and then purple, the colors easing into each other and intensifying, so that the last bunch of them is almost black.

"What about the waterfall?" I ask. "There must be some connection to electricity and water."

Xander bends over the pond, his hand plunged into the water as he feels around in the piping. "Well, let's just say you're not going to get a bill from the water company." He yanks his hand out and shakes it, sprinkling water on the bush. "Or the electric company."

"What do you mean?"

He squints at me through the noon sun. "It's tapped into the water main that runs along the street. And the power line -- hijacked."

Oh, no. Here I am, committing felonies without even knowing it. "How is it done?"

Xander shrugged and dried his hand off on his jeans. "It isn't really hard. I've done it myself, back when we put that shower in at Spike's."

Oops. I can see the appalled expression in his eyes. He probably just remembered that we don't say that name out loud. They all think -- well, I don't know. That I can't hear that name. But I can. Really. I just don't say it myself. I try to make this casual. No big deal. "So you tapped into the city water main?"

Xander looks relieved that I'm not having a violent reaction. "Yeah. Plus we got electricity and cable in there too."

I can do casual. I just don't say his name, see. "Did you get paid for this?"

"Uh, sure." Xander pauses, and I can tell he's trying to figure out how to say this without, you know, mentioning the name. "I got paid $100. Plus, uh, the first Lord of the Rings DVD."

"Oh," I say carelessly, dropping onto my bench. "Well. Am I in danger of arrest?"

Xander shakes his head. "The amount is pretty minimal. They'll put it down to the usual leakage. I gotta run, hon -- late for work."

And he goes to his car, ducking a little as he exits the low doorway, and I'm left there thinking about this garden and the generous felon, whoever he is, who made it for me.

Quick, I jump up and run out onto the street. "Xander!"

He stops halfway into his truck cab. "Yeah?"

"Did you teach him how to do that? Tap into the city utilities?"

Xander leans against the roof of the pickup and studies me for a minute before he replies. "I guess we figured it out together. You know how it goes. I had the technical know-how, and he had the criminal instincts."

"A great team." I laugh kind of carelessly. At least I hope it sounds careless. "But he ended up knowing how to do this, right? After you were done?"

He pauses again. Then, gently, he says, "Buffy, he's dead. Three times over. Remember? Angel told Giles. Said he'd been killed in some big battle, along with Wes."

I toss my head. Carelessly. "Of course I remember. It's not like something I'd forget. But --"

"I know what you're thinking. That he came back before." His voice got real soft. "And you didn't try to reach him then. So maybe you're feeling a little guilty–"

"I don't feel guilty!"

"I recognize the signs, Buff." He shakes his head. "I used to have these dreams about Anya. Every night. Only they didn't feel like dreams. They were completely rational, not crazy at all. We had conversations exactly like we'd have if she actually came back -- conversations about death and what it felt like, and about our future. Me apologizing for treating her bad. I --" He sighed. "I didn't tell anyone. But I thought it was her ghost."

"What happened?" I whisper this.

"When I moved here, it just stopped. I needed to get away, see, for my subconscious to let go."

Or maybe -- but I can't say it. I can't say that maybe Anya's spirit can't find him now. That would be too awful to think about, Anya's spirit waiting there in California, waiting for him. So I just say, "Grief is a funny thing sometimes."

"Yeah. But we got to let go eventually. Can't stay tied to the past. It's not what they would have wanted for us. You got someone new. Don't screw it up the way I always do." He adds, "I got to get back to work. And you got to get to class. Maybe the garden is just a gift, Buffy. From the universe. Just accept it and enjoy it." He starts to get into the driver's seat, and then emerges for a moment. "Oh, and prune back that petunia vine, okay? It tends to take over if you aren't ruthless with it."

I watch him drive away, and slowly make my way back into the garden. I sit down on a planter box, next to the hydrangeas, and I think about having someone new. Xander is right. I don't want to be like he is, always wrecking a relationship before it even gets started. He's got this habit of getting drunk on the third date and telling the woman all about Anya and how he left her at the altar and then she died -- and you can't blame the woman for being unavailable for his calls from then on.

But I don't have to worry about that. I'm not going to embarrass Josh by going on and on about how guilty I feel about Spike. No worry about that.

I reach over and pick a petal out of the dirt, and see something there. Fresh rake marks.

But it rained last night. I got wet running for Josh's car, and then when I got ready for bed, I could still hear the pelter of drops on the roof, and it didn't stop till right before I fell asleep.

The gardener must have been here after that. He must have been here within the last twelve hours. Raking and pruning and picking up fallen petals in the dark. In the cool rain-smelling dark.

I close my eyes and became the slayer. I feel around me, feel for the presence. But the fragrance of flowers all around distracts me. I can't feel anything.

"Xander thinks I'm feeling guilty because I didn't call."

"Call whom?" Giles looks up from his paperwork, annoyance gradually fading on his face. He's annoyed at the bureaucracy, not at me. He's got all these forms to fill out before the slayerette can come here– forms making me her temporary guardian, forms enrolling her in summer school, forms so her FICA gets paid to the right account (yeah, they even pay slayers-in-training now... and I think of those years when I did it all for free– of course, the $100,000 lump sum I got last year kind of compensated). It sure was easier to be a Watcher when there was only one slayer, and you didn't have to educate her, because she wouldn't live long enough to need learning. "Call Dawn?"

"No. I call Dawn every week."

"Who then?"

I still can't say his name. "You know. Last year. After you told me Andrew had seen him."

"Oh." Giles knows what I mean. He gets up to pull the drapes shut. The late afternoon sun is streaming in from the west, yeah, but I can tell mostly he wants to turn his back so he can take off his glasses and rub the lenses without me making fun of him. "Yes. Well. I thought you'd want to know. Or that you'd blame me if I knew and didn't tell you, anyway."

"I thought he should call me. Since he was the one who came back from the dead. It was his responsibility."

"He did come to see you when he was in Rome, Andrew said."

I brood on this for awhile. "I don't know why he didn't just stay a few hours. Wait for me to come back."

"Perhaps staying wasn't an option. Angel was with him, I recall."

Yeah. And I can just imagine how quick Angel would make his exit. I can just imagine what he'd say -- She's with someone else now. She doesn't care about you. She doesn't care about the past. Let her go and be happy and normal. Don't be selfish. Be selfless like I was. I let her go. You should too. Only he'd probably put in some insults, like you moron and you idiot.

Angel would make it seem like what I felt for Spike wasn't worth reviving. And I suppose Spike wouldn't have much evidence to prove him wrong, would he?

"I was going to call him after that. But --"

But I wanted to break up with the Immortal before I did. And you don't break up with the Immortal, see. You get him to break up with you. It took several weeks of being mildly obnoxious and boring before he gave me the sapphire bracelet goodbye gift that meant it was now safe not to be the Immortal's inamorata.

And by that time, Giles was back on the phone to me, with the news of that last battle. Spike was gone again. Died again in an alley. I guess no one even saw. No one swept up the dust. No one had a memorial service. No one cared, from what I could tell. If Giles hadn't called trying to find Wesley, Angel wouldn't even have bothered to tell us that they were both dead.

No one saw.

Maybe he didn't --

Now Giles is talking like Xander. Talking about moving on, starting over. About what Spike would have wanted for me. Happiness. All that. About the garden maybe being an omen of some kind, an omen of the bright future I have ahead. I nod and smile and all the time I'm thinking -- no one saw?

I wait until Giles leaves to file the guardianship papers at the courthouse. And then I go to my laptop and boot it up and open my email program. And there in a folder of saved mail I find it, a year-old note from that girl Anne, the one in LA, the one who ended up running a teen shelter -- just a quick note saying that Charles Gunn had survived the last battle and was staying with her until he recovered. In case, I guess, I wanted to send a get-well card to this guy I barely knew. My mother brought me up to do things like that. But I didn't. Like I didn't call Spike when I heard he was alive. Mom would be so disappointed in me.....

Underneath Anne's name was her title (Director) and the shelter's address and phone number. Before I can change my mind, I dial the number, and when a woman answers, I say, "I'm trying to track down Charles Gunn."

And just like that, she says, "Hang on." And I hear her yelling, "Charles! Phone!"

Then he's on, and it takes me a minute to regroup. "Charles," I finally say. "This is Buffy Summers."

"Oh. Hi." He sounds confused. "Good to hear from you."

"I didn't realize you were there. At the shelter."

"Yeah. I work here now." Now he's abrupt. "What can I do for you?"

I did this too quick. I don't have anything planned. Finally I just blurt out. "Look. About that last battle. I just wanted to know about --" And then I say the name I haven't said in a year. "Spike."

"Spike." And there's something in his voice. Sorrow, maybe? And for a second I feel better about something I haven't let myself feel bad about --about Spike being friendless there in LA. Stuck there with Angel who hated him, because he didn't have anywhere else to go. But Charles Gunn says his name with something that sounds like – affection. Like he sort of misses him. So maybe Spike wasn't so alone those last days -- "Yeah. Well. What did you want to know?"

I take a deep breath. "When he died. Uh, was he alone?"

Charles was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "No. I was there. And Angel."

My chest starts hurting with the loss of a hope I should never have had. "You saw him die."

"Yeah. Dusted." He pauses again, and says, "I saw it. Sorry."

"No. No." I try to keep the quaver out of my voice. "I'm just glad he wasn't.... wasn't alone. That you and Angel were there for him."

He echoes, "There for him." He makes some noise that almost sounds like a laugh. But it can't be a laugh. "Right. That we were."

"Okay. Thanks." I have to get off before I start blubbering. "Uh, well, say hi to Angel for me."

Another moment. And then, "I don't see Angel anymore. So I can't."

"Oh." I understand. For a long time after the Hellmouth was closed, Xander and I couldn't see each other either. Now we're friends again, but it took awhile before we could look at each other and not see the ending. So I say, all in a rush, "Well, then, give my best to Anne." And then I hang up before I say any more stupid things.




In the evening, I have another date with Josh. I wait till he orders dessert before I tell him I can't see him anymore.

He's confused. I don't blame him. I mean, just a couple days ago, we were holding hands and talking -- in a theoretical way– about which Cleveland neighborhoods had the best schools. "But I thought we were --" He stops and puts on his concerned face, the one he uses when he's interviewing a laid-off worker. "What's wrong, Buffy?"

I stick a fork into my chocolate mousse cake and break off a triangle. Then I squash it with the fork tines. "I really like you." I lift the fork and squash it down again. "But I realized today that I was..." Using you. I don't want to say that. "I wasn't really ready for this. I'm... I'm sort of still in recovery. And -- and you deserve better than just a rebound."

"Rebound?" He reaches over and takes my hand, and I have to drop the fork. "Buffy, I know you were badly hurt, but you know, high school was a long time ago."

"High -- " He's talking about Angel. My high-school boyfriend. The one who broke my heart. I did tell him about Angel, not the vampire/curse/Angelus thing of course, but about the dark and dangerous man who loved me and left me.

I never told him about Spike. I wouldn't even know what to tell him. There was this guy, see, and he loved me a lot, and then he died. And then he died again. So naturally he thinks that I'm still mooning over some guy in high school, because that's the only guy he knows about. I clear my throat. "There was someone else. But he died. It's been a year, and I thought I was over it, but something happened today and I realized I'm... not. Over it."

Josh squeezes my hand. "That's okay. That's what I'm here for. To support you. It won't make me jealous or anything if you talk about him."

"I don't want to talk about him!" That came out too vehement. I dial down the intensity. "All I mean is, I can't really be a good girlfriend yet. And you deserve that. But I can't...." I can't love you. That's what I mean. But when I say that, I hear myself saying it to Spike. Only it was I can't love you because you're an evil soulless thing. I can't love you because you're a monster. Ask me again why I can't love you.

I'd never say anything like that to Josh. I say it the other way, the kind way. "I can't love you the way you deserve. It's not you. It's me. I just don't have it in me."

He still has hold of my hand. He says, "This reminds me of that old song. That old Meatloaf song." And very softly, he sings, "I want you, I need you. But there ain't no way I'm ever going to love you. But don't be sad. 'Cause two out of three ain't bad."

I just stare at him. I can't believe he's singing here in the middle of a restaurant when I'm trying to break up with him. Finally he lets go of my hand. "Couple years ago, when I was about to graduate, I bought that CD and played that song for my girlfriend. I wanted to break up with her, but I didn't want to hurt her, you know? So I played that song and I said, that's the way I feel." He shakes his head. "It still hurt her."

I don't know what to make of this. Finally I say, "So you know what I mean."

"Sure, Buffy. I know what you mean." He calls for the check and gets out his wallet. "Most relationships don't work out. No big deal. Still friends, all that."

And that's it. He takes me home, gives me a chaste cheek-kiss, and says with a grin, "Call me if you hear of any news." Then he drives away.

He took it well. It's a relief. Really.

All of a sudden it hits me. That's what love is like, out here in the real world. You don't get in too deep, because you have to be able to get out again.

No one is ever going to love me like Spike did.

Boy, that sounds selfish. Like I deserve to be loved that much again. Like I merit that sort of sacrifice. Like I'm due some unconditional love.

That's not what I mean. But... but I realize that it was pretty rare, Spike's kind of love. Not many people love that way. I don't know anyone else that does. Most people are more sensible than that. They know better than to love that hard and give that much. Hurt that much.

I know better. Knew better.

Maybe only demons love that way.

No wonder he didn't believe me. That last minute, when he was about to die at the Hellmouth, I tried to say what he wanted to hear -- "I love you"– but turns out he didn't want to hear it after all. He wanted to know it without hearing it. He wanted to know it in every fiber like he knew I knew he loved me.

In the end, I think, he didn't even want that. It hurt too much to want that. So he just gave up wanting.

I don't think he ever gave up loving.

It's June, and sunset comes later and later. Most evenings, I get to watch the news and Wheel of Fortune before I go out to patrol. This evening, I tell Giles I have to stop at the library, and I'll meet him at the cemetery. But I go out the back way, so he doesn't see me carrying a thermos and a mug along with my weapons bag.

The sun is just a red ball over the west wall as I enter my garden. Now I feel him all around me -- his passion is there in the colorful flowers, and his devotion there in the sturdy cherry tree, and his voice is there in the waterfall.

I have to work quickly. I don't want to spook him. Whoever he is.

I spread out the white linen napkin on the bench. On it I set the thermos and the NPR mug. Mom donated to the local NPR every year, so we always had NPR mugs in the cabinet on Revello Drive. I had to stop by the local station earlier today to exchange a check for a mug. I want ... to see. To see if he understands. To see if it's still him.

As soon as I get it all set up, I make a quick exit. Ten minutes later, I'm meeting Giles at the gates of another cemetery, just as the sun slips down under the horizon.

I skip history class in the morning and go right to the garden. And there on the bench is the thermos. All the hot chocolate is gone, and it's been rinsed. The NPR mug is right next to it, filled with pink flowers. And then I remember. Mom loved camellias. We had three bushes around the back porch, and they'd bloom in March or April– big pink flowers like the ones in the mug.

It's him. Only he would know --



I don't tell anyone. Of course not. They already think I'm a little crazy. And anyway, some rational part of my brain tells me that I'm being just like Xander when he thought Anya's ghost came to him every night. Grief is a funny thing. Delayed grief is even odder. But... but....

A nor'easter blows in the next day. That's a big storm that locals say ruins every weekend in late spring. Arctic winds come down over Lake Erie, and suddenly spring turns back into winter. The wind is harsh and cold, and strong enough to blow people right off porches. I stay indoors and watch videos while Giles monopolizes the phone, making last-minute assurances to the slayerette's parents that I really am a suitable guardian, even if I'm hardly more than a girl myself. Even if it's only for a month. Even if their sweet little girl is stronger than Andre the Giant.

I lie there watching Princess Bride -- he and Dawn loved that film -- and worrying about him. I worry that he might try to work in the garden and get all wet. Maybe get struck by lightning. Maybe get impaled by a falling tree branch.

Sunday night, the storm blows out, and I set my alarm for 4 am. I sneak out of the house when it's still dark, carrying my bag. A power outage has hit Bellwood Avenue, so all the streetlights are out, and it takes me a minute to find the keyhole in the old wooden door. As I start to turn it, I hear something inside -- movement.

He's in there. I can hear him. I can feel him. I can sense him. I close my eyes for a second, just feeling him. I know I'm crazy. I know it can't be true. But just for the moment, I close my eyes and feel him.

Then I open my eyes and push through the doorway and rush in like this is a demon lair.

And he's not there.

But he was, I tell myself, in a panic. I know he was. I flick on my keychain penlight and look for evidence. I find it right away. There by the path is a pot of red geraniums, a hole already readied. He must have been digging when he heard me--

And got away how?

It's only when I've found the door in the east wall, the door that leads into the cemetery, that I think of the other question. And got away why? Why would he run from me? If it was really him?

I prowl the cemetery for a half an hour, but I never find him. So I go back to my plan. It seems so stupid now, when I've come so close to seeing him. But it's all I got. I return to the garden and set up the boombox on the bench, sliding in the Ramones CD. I check to make sure the battery power is working. Then -- remembering how often it rains here -- I cover it with a clear plastic tarp. I glance over at that east door, the dawn light haloing above it, and finally go home.

When I return on Tuesday morning, the boombox is still under the tarp. Disappointed, I sit down beside it on the bench, and look for signs of life. There's a new narrow bachelor button border around the pond (I know they're bachelor buttons because I got a book of flowers from the library) -- pretty blue flowers. Blue like his eyes. I never told him, not in all that time, that he had beautiful eyes.

I'm being sentimental. I feel him here. I feel his love here. And the peace settles over me. Now that I know he's here, in whatever way he's here, I can see so many bits of him -- the crooked rows of lavender, and the splashes of red everywhere, and the candles set around the pond.

He can't even see this, you know. Not as I see it. Not in the sun. The colors, so bright and varied for me, are muted for him. Moonlight might dapple the garden floor, but it will be milky and not bright like the sunlight.

I have to see it for him. Love it for him.

I feel him close, in every bloom. But I want to feel him closer. I want to feel all of him, not just his tenderness. The anger, the violence, the desire, the laughter. I look down at the boombox, and punch the play button through the clear plastic, expecting to hear that dumb Ramones song he loved, the one about being sedated.

But something moody and familiar starts up instead -- a song from the jukebox at the Bronze, one I played when I had a few extra quarters.
Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are

I don't even want to wonder– how he found the CD, why he remembers. Where he is now. I just listen and wait. I can wait. I can wait for him.



Only I can't. I can't wait any longer. So that night I beg off patrolling, and wait till Giles is asleep, and I sneak out into the dark street. It's kind of exhilarating, sneaking out. Like I'm a teenager again. Like I'm sneaking out to meet my boyfriend for some illicit sex.

I know Giles would disapprove -- not so much the illicit sex part (though he wouldn't be happy about that, if I was having any, not that I am) but because he'd think I'm crazy. I think it myself. There's some rational part of my brain that keeps reminding me that Spike is dead, gone to dust, and I just heard it from an eyewitness. Giles would tut-tut and speak solemnly of the terrible lot of generals who must send others to die (that's me, General Buffy), and he'd probably pat my hand and --

So I sneak out, just like when I was 16. And it feels just as wicked.

This time I skirt the garden and head for the adjacent cemetery. But I stick close to the brick wall, close enough to see the flicker of candlelight against the backdrop of darkness. My heartbeat flickers right along with it. He's in there. I can't hear him, but I can imagine him. Sense him. And maybe, maybe, I can get him.

I'm dressed just the right way -- blood-bait, in a low-cut blouse that exposes my jugular vein. I mosey along, humming a Britney Spears song, bobbing my silly little head as I go. I'm no further than the third row of gravestones when the dark form of a vampire appears from behind a tomb. I could deal with him expeditiously, but I don't, because it's another vampire I'm after. So I play with him, calling out (loudly) my usual patter of puns, and he's wondering what sort of dumb blonde he's got here, anyway. I let him close in on me, his hands going for my throat, and I let out a great big howl, from way deep down inside me. "Spike!" I yell. "I need you!" (I still have my pride. I'm not going to yell help, even if I need it, and I don't now.)

And there he is, standing on the brick wall, his bare biceps glinting in the moonlight. He leaps, his arms out to the side, one of those vampire moves I've never actually seen any vampire but Spike do. Pret-tay, Faith would say, but then, she'd say that about him if he were standing still, because she's always had the hots for him.

The only thing is, that leap is usually accompanied by this sexy growl. No growl. The only sound is him landing lightly on the soggy ground, a few feet away.

He grabs the startled vampire, twists off his head -- pret-tay for sure -- and as the dust settles around us, he gives me that look, you know, the honestly puzzled but half-exasperated look that says you couldn't handle the likes of him?

But I don't care that he thinks I've suddenly become a total wimp. He's here, and he's real, and I reach out to touch him. And his face changes, shifts to vamp, and he backs away, and as I'm saying, "Wait! Spike!" he takes off.

Most vampires aren't as fast as me (except for that first three or four yards -- they move like blurs in that distance). But Spike is like the Michael Johnson of vampires. Over a couple hundred yards, I don't think anyone can catch him. I've never managed. And I can't manage it tonight. He's sprinted along the wall and vaulted over it into the nearby park before I even get going.

I found him. And I've lost him again. I trudge to my garden and sit disconsolately on the rocky border of the pond, trailing my hand in the water and staring at the guttering flame of the candle. Around the pond he's been putting in some more plants– lilies of the valley, I think, little white flowers with glossy green leaves.

Next to the little pots of flowers is a set of headphones. They're connected to the boombox I gave him. I put them on and hear what he was hearing just a few minutes ago -- the Ramones. I don't wanna be buried ... in a pet sematery....

I punch the stop button on the boombox. I don't know if Spike will come back tonight, and I don't want to run the batteries down.



All through lit class the next day, I'm thinking about Spike instead of Charles Dickens. The first question is, how is he back? Charles Gunn saw him dusted. And from what I can tell, Charles is a reliable witness -- an attorney, a friend of Spike's. If all I had to go on was Angel's telling Giles that Spike was gone, I might have my doubts, because, well, Angel sometimes says things that aren't true without realizing they're not true. I'm not saying he's a liar, just that he's got his own particular view of reality that doesn't always reflect real reality.

But Charles said he saw it with his own eyes. Spike. Dead. Dust.

I doodle in my notebook so the professor thinks I'm paying attention, and remind myself that Spike is really hard to kill. I know. I've tried. And only once -- in the Hellmouth -- I succeeded, not that I wanted to at that point. And he came back from that, didn't he? Giles tried to tell me that it was some kind of Wolfram & Hart screw-up, that it was supposed to be Angel wearing the amulet and becoming the champion and saving the world, and Spike, as he usually does, made mincemeat out of their careful strategy. And there was some cosmic burp, and Spike got thrown back into the world.

But... but I have this alternate scenario that I've never tried out on anyone, because it sounds like the sort of wussy grief-and-guilt-inspired thinking Giles and Xander warn me against. But I'm going to say it anyway. I think maybe Spike's special. Even more special than Angel.

I know. That's like sacrilege or something. Angel's spent decades as the fair-haired boy of the Powers That Be. (Even if he actually has dark hair, and hasn't been a boy for centuries.) They have all these plans built around him, big plans that I don't quite understand because I give wide berth to all those Powers. The only Powers I'm interested in are the ones given to me, and I gave to the other slayers.

But the PTBs love Angel. The souled vampire. The evil-turned-good. A prophecy come to life.

Only... I mean, think about it. Angel only has a soul because he's cursed. And he turned good because he's afraid he'll be damned if he doesn't expiate all his sins. And he goes along with the Powers because he'll be rewarded if he does, plus I guess he's respectful of all the prophecy stuff.

But Spike -- no one forced him to get a soul. And he did good because he wanted to, not because it was worth his while. Okay, so both getting a soul and doing good were because of me, but come on. Love's at least as worthy a motivation for doing good as avoiding damnation is. Hey, Dickens even wrote a whole book about it, didn't he? I mean, that Sidney Carton guy only replaced the other guy, the drippy one, in the execution line to make the woman he loved happy, right? And, jeez, Sidney Carton is this major heroic figure in literature. So why not Spike? (He probably should have had a better closing line. Sidney Carton says this cool thing: "It's a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done before. It's a far, far better place I go, than I have ever been before." That kind of resonates better than Spike's exit line, where he like channeled Alice Cooper-- "School's out for the bloody summer!")

So it's possible that the Powers suddenly recognized that Spike was special. Or maybe there was one particular Power (female, I bet) who saw his potential. Maybe he got sent back because he could do something no one else could do. And maybe he wasn't supposed to die again with Angel last year. (It is sort of annoying that he dodged the stake for more than a century, and then he dies twice in a year.) So... well, just consider this. Don't dismiss it out of hand. Just consider that maybe they sent him back again for a reason. Or for a reward. Or as a rebuke to Angel.

Okay, so that answers the "how and why he's back" issue. (I am not even going to worry about the "if". As far as I'm concerned, I've proved that much.)

Next question. What's with the garden?

I better not think about that. It twists my heart too much, and if the tears start up here in lit class, the professor's going to worry I might be a bit too sensitive about poor Tiny Tim and Ebenezer Scrooge.

Next question. Question of the month, in fact. Why did he come to help me, and then run away when I started to touch him?

Well, okay, he came to help me because that's what he does. If he's alive (or at least undead) and around, and I need him, he shows up. No-brainer.

The other part of that question -- that's the hard part. I replay the moment in my mind. He's there with me in the dark, like always, and I just stretch out my hand, meaning to touch his face, or maybe his shoulder. And something like panic shows in his eyes, and he's gone.

He doesn't want me to touch him.

I give that about two seconds before discarding it.

He doesn't want me to hold him. Keep him. There's some danger in that.

That makes a bit more sense. Danger for me? Or for him?

Probably for me.

Well, he should know I can take care of myself. Or at least that there aren't too many dangers he and I can't overcome together.

Final question. Why am I going after him, if he is trying to get away?

I can't really come at that question straight. First I remind myself that he might try to get away, but he can't really want to succeed. I don't know how he came back here, but he came here, to Cleveland, to me. And he made me a garden. I don't know where he got that crazy idea, but when I think of him, a vampire, trying to bring a little life into the world... planting flowers he'll never see in the sun, digging in the dirt by flickering candlelight, carefully building those boxes when being careful has never been something he's been good at -- and all for me... it's just a gift of love. That's all it can be. So no, I don't think he really wants to get away from me. I think... I think he's been away from me long enough. I think the garden is his way of being with me.

But me... I'm such a mess. Such a mess. I don't have any plan. I don't know what I want. And is it fair to go after him now? Chase him down? Capture him? When I haven't ever been able to commit to him?

What do I plan to do with him when I catch him?

I find myself making a list in my lit notebook.

To do:
1) Yell at him for not ever calling me that whole year to say he was alive.
2) Apologize for not calling him from Rome. Explain about the Immor -- no. Maybe not. Just explain about wanting to call him but running out of time.
3) Yell at him some more for not calling me this time to tell me he's alive.
4) Thank him for the garden.
5) Take him to bed.

I stare at that last one for a while. The wanting grows. It feels like a need now. But I remember what that means -- me taking advantage of his love. I'm done with that. Moved beyond that. Grown up. Changed. Learned to value what's really valuable.

So I scratch that last one out and replace it with:

5) Tell him I love him only this time sound more believable.

Then I add,

6) Take him to bed.

6) Take him to bed.






But not tonight. Here I am, all tense for Spike, and we have to go pick up the slayerette at the airport. Oh. I'm not supposed to call her "the slayerette". That's what Spike used to call them, all those girls who hung around the house on Revello and looked at him like he might bite them. (Well, that I get.) But Giles calls them slayer trainees. And that's what I'm supposed to call them, since I'm the Senior Executive Slayer and should set a good example.

So we go to pick up the slayer trainee at the airport that evening, and the whole time we're waiting by the baggage claim, I'm worrying if he's mad at me or sad or missing me. I'm worried that some demon might see the candlelight flickering in the garden while Spike works and decide it's a great lair to be had. And then he goes after Spike when I'm not there to help. Well, Spike can handle most demons, even without my help. But what if he's upset and sad and not paying attention and the demon takes him by surprise? That could happen. What if seeing me hurt him so much he's drunk a whole lot of whisky and he's passed out there in the dirt, one hand around the neck of the bottle, the other around some begonia he was transplanting? And that damned Wehoe that runs this town has sent a whole contingent to get him? Or what if he is still passed out there when the sun rises over the brick wall?

His voice comes to me, inside my head, as I wait with Giles next to the revolving baggage carousel. Slayer, can take care of myself. Been doing it for a lot of years. (I never thought I'd miss being called Slayer that way.) And I think back, Well, you've done a lousy job of it lately! Dusted twice in a year!

I glance over at Giles, hoping he doesn't notice me talking in my head to a supposedly dead vampire. But he's busy looking at a photo in his hand and comparing it to the passengers streaming off the escalator. "There she is," Giles says, indicating some tall skinny girl in cowboy boots and an Armani jacket. Her hair is auburn and perfect, all tousled and Jennifer-Anistonish. I can't believe she's just 18. "Taylor Watson."

You know how sometimes you just don't like someone? Well, I just don't like Taylor Watson. That name, right off. Just like Kennedy -- using a last name as a first name. Sure, that's her parents' doing, and maybe someone named Buffy shouldn't talk, but -- it's just instantaneous. She looks at me in this cool, dismissive way, and turns to Giles with a smile. One of those women who thinks only men are worth attention.

When he welcomes her, she's like a queen accepting tribute. She probably thinks being a slayer isn't a duty or a burden, but a recognition for being perfect.

Oh, great. I probably ought to assert my authority, be the alpha female. But I'm just too preoccupied with the whole Spike thing. So when she says, "Buffy, is it?" in a sardonic Texas drawl, Giles glances over with a "be-nice" expression on his face. I don't pay any attention. I just say, "Yeah. How ya doing?" and then to Giles, "I'll go get the car."

I can tell Giles is surprised I didn't get all bitchy. And Taylor looks like she's been denied a fight. But I just want to get them home and asleep so I can sneak out and go to the garden and find him.

Taylor keeps Giles up past midnight, demanding answers about disability insurance and tuition-reimbursement. Across the dining room table, I regard her with grudging respect. She can't be more than 18, and she's more savvy already than I am now. I mean, I never thought to ask for disability insurance. And I've been paying my own tuition. But she's already got a 401K plan set up. Turns out her father is an investment banker.

After awhile, I tune out, mentally adding items to my to-do list.

7) Tell Spike he has beautiful eyes.

8) Find out where he lives and whether it has bathroom facilities, otherwise bring him here to my own bed and who cares what Giles and Taylor think.

9) Better tell Dawn as soon as it's confirmed or she'll hold a grudge against me for life, like four life-long grudges against me aren't enough.

10) Persuade Xander that he and Spike are really old friends and old friends don't stake each other.

11) Ditto Giles.

12) Don't get mad at him no matter what.



When I finally get over there, the garden is dark. Empty. The boombox is gone. The lilies of the valleys are all planted. I consider leaving a note, but maybe that'll spook him. He's so stubborn.

(When he's being stubborn, he gets this cute expression. Like a bulldog, only a lot cuter than a bulldog. He looks all determined and mad. I want to see him again.)


Two nights later, I stand in the empty garden and curse. I pull out my little penlight and my little pen and a receipt from the grocery store and I write: Now stop being stubborn and be here when I come, because I've come every night and you're not here, and I can't sleep, and I have to go to school, and I have to patrol still, and I have to train this new trainee, and I need my sleep. . I think for a minute, remember what works with him, and add, It's not safe for me to patrol if I'm not getting enough sleep. Love, Buffy.

The next night, he's there. He's not in the garden, but I sense him somewhere around. I walk around the brick wall into the cemetery, breathing in, because I feel him there in the air around me. My heart just aches. I want him to be here. All of him. Right here with me.

Is this love? It's got to be love. He can't say it's not love.

I wander around till I sight the perfect situation. There are two vamps, a male and a female, waiting at a gravesite for a fledgling to erupt. (And they say this current generation of vamp lacks family values!) I stay far enough back that they can't sense me, and I wait right along with them. I'm glad Giles left for London yesterday, because he would get so mad at me. I trained you better than that, he'd declare. Stake the two first, and get the third when he comes out!

But dumb Giles. He'd think I'm coming here to kill vampires. Really I'm trying to entice Spike out of hiding. And that's going to take more than one or even two vamps.

So I lean against a tomb and watch as a hand emerges from the dirt. The female reaches down and yanks, and a new vampire, still clad in his funeral suit but pretty dirty, slides out. I kind of get a shiver, remembering my own climb out of the grave. Then I stride forward to meet them.

The fledge stands around looking bewildered while I engage the other two. Their eyes are gleaming gold in the darkness, and they make a fight of it, but I have to work at keeping them on their feet. Finally it gets intense enough -- they're on either side of me, snarling-- that I feel justified in yelling, "Spike, I need you! Really! This time I really need you!" And then, cringing in humiliation, I add, "Help!"

The vampires are laughing at me. (Spike owes me for this.) I fend them off with my feet and fists instead of the stake, waiting. Waiting. I have to dust the female -- just can't hold her off anymore -- and I yell, "Need you, Spike!" as I turn to the male. He's really mad at me for killing his woman, and that's good, because he comes at me like he means it, and I sense Spike nearby -- and then, with a whoomph, someone shoves me to the ground. I roll over quick and hear the clang of metal on bone, and I see it -- the fledge picked up a gravedigger's shovel and swung it at me, and hit... well, Spike. Who is now laid out on the ground, quite unconscious.

The vamps are growling, but I don't have time for them. I stake the male, and then, really mad now, I grab the shovel from the fledge, break it over my knee, and shove the jagged end of the wooden handle into his chest. "Don't you hurt my man," I say, and fling the broken shovel into the settling dust.

Then I drop down beside Spike. "You dummy," I say, my hands on his shoulders, searching for damage. "All you had to say was duck. And I would have ducked. You didn't have to get between me and the shovel–"

But of course he doesn't hear me. His eyes are closed, and he's lying as limp as I've ever seen him. I touch the broken place on his temple with my fingers, as delicately as I can. Oh. I got him hurt. Again.

On the bright side, he's out for the count and can't get away.

Sitting down in the dirt beside him, I find my cell phone and call home. Taylor is supposed to be asleep, but she must be up late surfing pornsites (okay, maybe she's checking her investment portfolio) because she answers pretty quick. I tell her to get the car and come to the cemetery, and make it quick.

She growses about having to get dressed, but I hang up on her, and in about the time it takes me to drag Spike to the curb, she's right there in my Taurus. She climbs out and comes around to help me, and says, "Whoa," as she catches sight of Spike in the light of the streetlamp.

It's not politically correct to say this. But the truth is, no one looks as good beaten up as Spike does. I think it's the contrast between his ivory skin and the purple bruises. And he really looks beat up tonight. The spade got the whole left side of his face. Already he has a nice black eye, and the skin is broken over that sharp cheekbone of his, and his mouth is getting swollen.

"Whoa," Taylor says again, her gaze roaming from his two-toned hair (only the tips are still bleached) down that sweet hurt face of his, over his black-t-shirted chest--

"He's mine," I say. "Hands off."

Well, I let her use her hands to help me get him into the back seat, but that's all. I climb in after him, and take his slender, solid body in my arms, and hold his head steady against my chest as she drives the few blocks back to my house. She's silent even when we carry him up the porch steps.

One arm under his shoulders, I fumble to get the key in the lock, and push the door open with my hip. "Almost there, Sp--" I start to say, backing in, but then his poor head bangs against the invisible barrier and I almost drop him. I have to fumble to keep his head from hitting the ground, and his mouth opens in a moan, only he's too deeply unconscious for it to sound. I hurt him. Again. I mutter some curse, and then say loudly, "Come in, Spike," and pull him through, with Taylor almost losing his legs, I'm so fast.

I shove on the light switch with my shoulder and point with my head to the spare room beyond the kitchen, recently vacated by Giles. And together we get Spike onto the bed. She lingers in the doorway as I pull off his boots. His old boots. I kind of hug the left one to my chest, getting a bit of mud onto my blouse. Then I set them both gently on the floor, side by side.

I forget about the slayerette, because I'm watching his face -- his eyelids flickering just a bit, his teeth biting his torn lip. His beautiful face. I never told him that. I never complimented him at all. He probably thinks I think he's as ugly as a toad.

His hair is dark against the pillow, and that's a change. But he's still wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt, and he's still slender and -- and he's still mine. Whether he knows it or not.

"He's a vampire, isn't he?" Taylor says in a hushed tone.

I realize the only vampires she's ever seen are the ones we staked the other night on her first training patrol. "Yeah. But he's a good one. And he saved the world." I add, threateningly, "The Powers brought him back from death twice now. So he's favored. And he get a buy, okay? You stake him, I stake you. Got it?"

She kind of coughs. "Yeah. Okay."

"Go get a wet cloth. And then --" I stocked up, see, yesterday, when I was making my plans. "Go down into the basement. There's a freezer there. Get a couple bags of blood out of there, and warm them up in the microwave. Seven minutes on 40% power." I don't know how I remember that, but I do.

She brings me the cloth and heads downstairs, and carefully I wash away the blood and mud on his face. I think of all the times he's been hurt like this for me-- sometimes by me -- and I'm extra gentle, and I talk to him. No mad, I remind myself. Just nice. "I'm glad you're back." That's nice. "I missed you. I missed you a lot." That was good. "Thanks for the garden. It's lovely. I love it." I love you, I think. But I want him to be awake when I say it. "Why didn't you--" Oops. Sounds mad. I clamp my mouth shut.

Taylor returns holding a big china bowl with the ziploc bags of blood. She sets it down on the nighttable and retreats back to the doorway. I look over my shoulder. "What?"

"I-- I was just wondering where his other face is."

I dab at his poor mouth with the wet corner of the cloth. "He puts it on when he wants to. But he usually looks like this. Without the damage, I mean."

"Yeah," Taylor says. She sounds sort of reverent. "Umm, what else can I do?"

She's actually trying to be helpful. I give it some thought. It's been awhile since I had to deal with a battered vampire. Spike heals so quickly, it is just symbolic, me nursing him like this. But I want to do it. "How about a bag of ice? That'll help with the swelling."

She vanishes and comes back a minute later with an ice-bag. When I apply it to his mouth, he stirs. I catch my breath, and close my eyes, and I wait for him to see me and say my name. I want to hear it in that low voice of his. Buffy. Hey, I'll settle for Slayer.

But I don't hear anything except Taylor's gasp. I open my eyes, and he's looking up at me, and he's scared.

Scared. Of me. "Hey, Spike–" Now I wish I used to call him by some endearment. He always called me pet or love, but I never called him anything but Spike. Well, I called him bad things. But it would really help now if I'd ever called him honey or sweetheart, because I could call him that and he'd know I'm not going to, well, hurt him, I guess. Whatever he thinks I'm going to do that makes him look at me like that.

I gentle my voice. "Hey. Honey." Better late than never, right? "I brought you home with me. I'm going to take care of you."

Now there is full-blown panic in his eyes. But he doesn't say anything. I pick up one of the blood bags-- it's nice and warm, just like he likes it-- and start to hold it out to him. But he's moving fast, like only he can, springing out of the bed and across the room before I can grab him.

Stupid Taylor just moves out of the way, letting him past her into the kitchen. "Stop him!" I yell, and she goes to comply, and we collide there in the doorway, and I have to shove her aside and take off after him.

Spike is just turning the corner to the front hall, and I know if he gets out the door into the night I've lost him. He's too good at this escape business. But as he rounds the corner, he skids on the hardwood floor, and his stockinged feet slip out from under him, and in the clumsiest move I've ever seen him make, he sprawls on his back in the little hallway.

I'm on him in an instant, knees straddling his chest, face only a few inches from his. I want to pound on him, but I remember I don't do that anymore, and I settle for yelling at him. I'm not supposed to do that anymore either. But it's better than pounding. "What is wrong with you? Why are you trying to get away?"

He looks up at me, and his blue eyes -- well, one blue eye, the other is swollen shut -- is full of misery. But he still doesn't answer me, and in exasperation I pull him up against me, his head against my breasts, and I say, "Just tell me."

And he struggles to get free, and I'm afraid of hurting him, so I let him go, or at least his head, and he sinks back to the floor and turns his face away. And he's got that stubborn look I love/hate, only there are tears in his eye, and he works his hand free of my grasp. He rubs hard at his eye with a chipped and dirty thumbnail, shoving the tears away, and I say, helplessly, "Spike, sweetie, just talk to me."

He turns back and looks up at me, and then I realize. "You can't," I whisper. "You can't."

I make him stand up and come back to bed, and he doesn't resist this time. He just wanted to keep me from learning the truth, and now I know, all the fight's gone out of him. Once he's in the bed, he just lies there staring up, and I sit down next to him, jam my hip against his, and get my head between him and the ceiling. "Now you look at me," I demand, and he does, and it just about breaks my heart, that look.

I suddenly remember some movie, some Crusade thing, and something cruel the Saracens do -- I think it's the Saracens -- and my stomach kind of plummets. They wouldn't -- he's a vampire. Wouldn't it grow back? No, I realize. It would just... heal. The wound.

I push my finger between his lips, trying not to hurt him, but I have to know. His tongue is right there where it's supposed to be, wet and cool, and it curls automatically around my finger, and along with the relief I feel feelings that are seriously inappropriate to the moment. He has the most talented tongue, and it would be really bad if --

But I don't have to think about that now. I withdraw my finger, all wet and tingly, and wipe it on his shirt. "Okay," I say. "It's okay. We'll – we'll work it out." And then I kind of collapse, and I put my head on his chest. "I'm just glad you're back, okay? I don't care about the rest."

His arms go around me slowly, and he's cool and solid and Spike, and I rest there for awhile until I finally remember the blood and make him drink it all.



Really. I don't care about the rest, just like I told him. But when I wake up early the next morning, my head still on his chest, I sit up and give him a good look-over and decide he's sufficiently healed for some questions. His eye is circled in purple, but it's open now, and the cut on his mouth is closed up. I pull the curtains across the kitchen windows and call him out. He sits across from me at the table, and I reach back to the counter and pick up the message pad by the phone. I shove it and a pen over to him. "Just write me a note. Tell me what happened."

He looks down at the pad and back up at me, and there's this hopeless despair in his face, and I say, "Just pick up the pen, Spike. And write to me. You don't have to talk if you can write."

So he picks up the pen in his left hand, and stares at it, as if he's willing it to move on its own.

"You remember how to write, don't you?"

And he moved his hand up and down, and the pen scratches on the pad, and then he stops and looks at what he's done. He pushes the pad over to me, and there's nothing there but lines and angles.

"Spike–" I take a deep breath. Then I walk over to his side of the table and sit down next to him. I take his left hand and move the pen on the pad underneath the scrawl. I write Hi, Buffy and then Hi, Spike. It looks way more like my handwriting than his.

He pulls his hand away, rises abruptly, and goes back into the bedroom, and I sit there for awhile, gazing down at the lines and angles. Has he lost his mind as well as his voice?

No. I remind myself that somehow he managed to find me, and acquire that lot, and build that garden, which meant buying plants and wood and stone. And he managed to transfer the deed to me. That took money and skill and thought. And he planted my mother's favorite flower, and he connected the pond's mechanism to the city utilities. And he remembered I liked that Coldplay song.

He can still think. He just can't--

I follow him to the bedroom and hear the shower going in the adjacent bathroom. I don't give myself anytime to think this through. Want, take, have. Well, I know what I want. I push the door open and step over his discarded clothes and pull back the shower curtain and get in with him.

I kind of forgot to take my own clothes off, but it's worth it to see that look on his face, half-astonishment and the other half desire, because the water is plastering my blouse right against my breasts, and I'm not wearing anything underneath. And so I don't mind that the rose color of my linen slacks is now running right down the drain.

He's all naked, of course, and slick with wet, and I press up against him. "You're mine," I say fiercely, and he puts his arms around me, and we stand there under the water until it goes cool. And then I pull him out of the shower, and he helps me strip off my sodden clothes, and we fall on the bed all wet, and I am frantic to have him. But he's having none of that. He settles me on the bed and lies beside me, and kisses me slowly, achingly, like it's been a long time. A long, long time.

And it has. It's been... years. Hard to believe. Years since we last kissed in his old crypt -- the one I destroyed with Riley a few hours later. All that time we lived together in my house, those last months of Sunnydale, I didn't let him kiss me – he didn't even try. Not even those three nights he held me as I slept– the only way I could sleep, with his undemanding arms around me. The crypt is gone, and my house is gone. Sunnydale is gone. Riley is gone, and Spike should be gone too, but here he is beside me.

This time, maybe the only time, I let him decide. And that's what he decides, a long slow kiss, his hand moving slowly up my hip, over my side, to my breast. All so slow, so sweet. This is the way he always wanted to make love, and I hardly ever allowed it, but now I let him, though every nerve in me is thrumming, though his erection is pulsing patient against my thigh.

He's the one who always used to talk during sex. I kept my mouth shut, well, I mean, I didn't say anything. I was afraid of what I'd say if I got started. Mean things, or sweet things, I don't know. Dangerous things.

But he is silent, so silent, and so I say what he can't say. I start out in a whisper, because this is new to me. And at first I just say, Oh, and oh, yes, and that's good, and right there, and more. And then I say what he would be saying if he could-- you're so beautiful, and please let me, and I love you.

When I say that last one, he stops what he's doing. He looks up past my breasts at my face, and I'm glad he can't talk, because I'm afraid he's going to tell me again that I don't. But instead he gives my belly button a little lick, and goes back to pleasuring me, and so I say it again, and it's like it scares him, because he comes up and silences me with a kiss. And then he enters me, and I can't do anything but moan anyway.

Afterwards, I tell him, "I meant it." And he sighs -- a sigh with no sound, just his breath moving against my shoulder. And I say, authoritatively, "I love you, goddamnit, and you better believe it this time."

I shove up his chin so I can see his face, and he's trying to hide a smile, and I smile back at him, and I say, "I love you. I missed you. I'm glad you're back. Don't leave me now."





We manage another shower together, and finally emerge from the bedroom more or less dressed-- Spike in his muddy clothes from last night, me in some old sweats I have stuck away in the spare bedroom closet. There in the kitchen is Taylor. She's not wearing old sweats she stuck away, but Armani shirt and Versace jeans. (I recognize them because, like I said, we get a lot of catalogs. Not like I get to shop Saks, even with my new salary.)

I forgot about her. I forgot that she'd probably get herself some lunch before leaving for her afternoon class. I forgot the kitchen is adjacent to the spare bedroom.

I guess maybe I was sort of preoccupied.

Spike nods to her and heads for the refrigerator, just like it's any other morning and like he owns the place anyway. I decide to copy his nonchalance, so I join him at the refrigerator, sliding my hand into the back pocket of his jeans -- take that, Nosey Parker Taylor -- and say, "You still like bacon? I can fry some up."

Maybe Spike can't talk, but he still has that expressive face, and he looks at me like he's the luckiest man in the world. Buffy, and bacon too. I can't help but smile, and I'm still smiling when I glance over at Taylor to ask if she wants some bacon too.

She's regarding me with respect. I mean, real respect. Like I'm worthy now that I've had some hot sex with a cool vampire.

I don't want to tell you how she's regarding Spike. I'm just glad he is still staring into the refrigerator in that way guys do (human or vampire), like somewhere in there is the key to eternal happiness, and they can find it if they just let out enough expensive cold air.

"Did you guys sleep okay?" Taylor says, real politely.

I fix her with an alpha stare. "Yeah," I say. "Until we woke up."

I'm not really sure what I mean by that, except I am a whole lot hotter than you, bitch, just ask Spike. She mutters something that might have been "yeah, I heard", but keeps it deniable by saying it into her coffee cup. I narrow my eyes, and she pretends that she's suddenly gotten real interested in the newspaper.

As I get out the skillet, Spike is still looking in the refrigerator, the door blocking her view of him, and I suddenly wonder if he's embarrassed. Or ashamed. You know, because he can't talk. I say pointedly, "Aren't you going to be late for class?"

Taylor glances up at the clock, and admits that she's pushing it, and gathers up her bookbag. "Bye, Spike," she calls out as she leaves.

I see his shoulders go rigid, and I put the skillet down on the stove and go over to him and pull him away from the refrigerator. He turns his head away, but I wrap my arms around him anyway. I hold him until he finally relaxes, and then I give him a quick kiss on the unbruised cheek and get back to making bacon.

While I cook, I chatter. About everything and nothing– about school and the local demon population and Dawn. "I have to call Dawn and tell her about you coming back," I say as I lay the nearly perfect bacon strips out on paper toweling.

When I set the plate down on the table, he's standing with his back against the refrigerator, his face tight. Oh. Dawn.

"Come on, Spike, you know she'll want to know. And she'll kill me if I keep it from her," I say coaxingly.

Nothing. No yielding of his expression. No sitting down. No bacon snatching. "Spike," I say more sharply. "This is Dawn. She loves you. She's missed you. She feels terrible that she never made up with you. She still cries about that when she talks about you." I grab his arm and pull him over to the seat next to mine, and sullenly, he sits. I keep hold of his wrist "It's just -- just selfish of you to think about yourself instead of her. You know she'll be so happy to see you."

Moodily he draws the plate towards him and picks up a piece of bacon in his fingers. He regards it grimly, then takes a bite. I guess that's a yes.

So before I leave for class, I call Dawn down at OSU. She is predictably excited and insists on coming home tomorrow. I get Spike settled in with ESPN and tell him sternly not to leave. He doesn't answer. It's a moment before I remember that he can't.

It's raining a few hours later when I get home. And he's gone.

Furious, I make my way to the garden. He's there, in the dimness of the afternoon, rainwater dripping down his face. He's on his knees in the mud, planting something purple in a raised box. He doesn't look at me when I enter and slam the door.

So I have to stalk up to him and grab his shoulder and turn him around, and that puts his mouth way too close to my breast, and there's a minute or so there that we forget that we're mad or estranged or whatever we are. Then he pushes away from me and stands up, and holds out a cold, dirty hand.

I take hold, and he leads me out that side door into the cemetery. The ground is spongy, and the wet seeps into my sneakers. "Do you like it here?" I ask, gazing past him to the leaden sky. "In Sunnydale, you never could go out in the day. But here– lots of overcast days. Even in the summer."

He looks back at me and smiles, and I think maybe I can do it. Read his thoughts from his eyes. Speak for him. Love him without hearing his voice.

"Where are we going?" I ask. And he leads me past the gravestones to a crypt.

Well, duh. Did I think he'd taken the penthouse in Armstrong Towers downtown? Of course he's been living in a crypt.

As crypts go (and I've been in way too many of them), this is pretty nice. He's got thick rugs on the stone floor, and a space heater, and a spindly bookcase filled with paperbacks, and--
and a closet rod with hangers with neatly folded jeans (oh, be still my heart– one pair is blue instead of black) and a few long-sleeve shirts and--

You know, I don't really care about his wardrobe and I'm not sure why I'm going on and on about it. What really draws my eye is this sort of bed in the corner by the pedestal. Not a real bed, just heaps and heaps of comforters and blankets, and some big fluffy pillows, and it's all so luxurious I get suspicious. "You have a lot of girls down here? Making them comfy?"

He gives me this look, his brows drawn together, like I'm nuts. And then he tackles me and I fall back onto the bed, and we strip off our wet clothes, and again I can't remember why I'm mad at him.

"You know," I tell him, "this really shouldn't work. You know, having sex instead of -- " Instead of talking, I am going to say, but then real quick I change it to "working through our problems."

He kisses me, lots of tongue, and I decide working through isn't any more important than the wardrobe, and anyway, what problems? So he can't talk. He can kiss.

I am so easy. It's really embarrassing.

But ... but... but I know he loves me more than anything. He's proved that a thousand times. And now (I think) he knows I love him. Things aren't perfect -- I want to hear his voice, and there's something bothering him, something that makes his eyes sad when they're not happy. But he's back with me, and I have a chance to make it right with him finally, and I'm not going to waste too much time worrying about -- about problems.



The next morning I wait after psych class until the professor is free. He's a nice guy, not much older than I am, and I get the idea there's nothing he likes better than students hanging around and soaking up his wisdom. So he takes me to the campus coffeehouse and we sit down and I say, "Uh, I'm thinking of writing a paper." I panic, worried that he might actually expect me to turn this paper in. "Or maybe a book. A novel. Or maybe a short story."

He sips his latte and observes, "And you want some psychology in there, I bet."

"Yeah. Yeah. I want to have a character -- a guy – with, umm, hysterical dumbness. I mean, muteness." I add, "He can't talk, I mean."

The professor nods. "That's a good ailment, as psychological ailments go."

"Yeah, well, I'm wondering if it's also possible if I can have him not be able to write, or do sign language. I mean, it's not just that he can't talk. He can't --"

"Communicate." He looks interested. "Well, obviously that's more rare. Mere muteness, see, can be attributed to spasms of the vocal cords or something like that, something stress-induced but still physical. But an inability to communicate even with other forms of language – writing and signing -- that would indicate a cognitive block of considerably more comprehensive proportions."

"A -- a cognitive block."

"Yes. You see, the basis of language, written or otherwise, is symbology. Language is all symbol -- a word is not the thing, but stands for the thing."

I get this. Maybe I am college material after all. "So whether it's written or signed or spoken, a word is a symbol. And if the brain can't make symbols --"

"It can't express."

"But --" I think of Spike. I left him asleep in his crypt early this morning, curled around two pillows that substituted for me. On the floor next to the bed was a book of Pablo Neruda poetry. He'd showed me a poem last night, after we'd made love, and he gazed at me with such intensity that I knew this poem meant something to him. To us. In the flickering candlelight I'd read it aloud to him, and realized this poem had given him the idea of making me a garden. I read it silently after that, several times, and some of it lodged in my memory --

In the night we shall go in,
we shall go in to steal
a flowering, flowering branch.

We shall climb over the wall
in the darkness of the alien garden,
two shadows in the shadow.

Spike still makes symbols in his mind. The garden is a symbol of his devotion. The flowers are a symbol of his passion. I know it.

"But what if -- what if I need him -- this character -- to, you know, still be able to read and think, just not able to communicate?"

The professor frowns. "Well, that would be intriguing. You see, we can't really know how these people think. They could have rich inner lives, full of symbols, but just lack the ability to convey them to us." He gives me a crooked grin. "You know. It's like when you sit down to take an essay exam, and in your mind is all this brilliance, but when you write it down, it's not brilliant at all. It doesn't mean that you aren't thinking well, only that you can't put that thought into words." He adds hastily, "I don't mean you in particular. I just mean us in general."

"I understand. No offense taken." I brood into my latte for a moment. "You say we can't really know what he -- what this guy in my story, I mean – would think, if he can't tell us with words. But there's still his face, right? His eyes? And his smile? The way he moves?"

"Well, sure. See, those are instinctive. Automatic. We smile when we're happy. We don't say, oh, I'm happy, I should convey that with a smile. And body language – we call it language, but it's really more organic than that. We hunch up when we're scared because our body wants to protect itself, not because we want to convey fear. And so on. Symbolism is always one step distant. But what you're talking about is direct. Emotion to body. It doesn't go through the mind, really. But..." He regards me curiously. "But not everyone is empathic enough or intuitive enough to read that. Not everyone can tell the difference between fear and anger in someone's face, for example."

That isn't a problem with Spike's face. It's as open as a book -- at least to me. I don't need language or symbology or any of that to tell me what he's thinking. "Thanks," I say, standing up and tossing my cup into the trash. "This has been really helpful."

"I hope you'll let me read the story when you're done with it," he says, and I nod, and decide I probably shouldn't take his course in the fall semester after all. Just in case he really means it.


I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. Pablo Neruda