Title: Life After Wartime

By: Lizerrrbeathan

Rating: R-restricted--no17 and under. Adult Content

Summary: BTVS Buffy/Spike Post Chosen; it’s about the healing and dealing before beginning (again)--one month following end of warfare.

Dedicated: To fanfic readers and writers; taking it back, taking it back and kicking out: Love is good, good, good...

*

I think...I think, or...maybe…I feel…more likely that...yeah that. Because, let’s bloody well consider that to think therefore ‘I am’.

And I am not.

And here, deep breath, or what would pass metaphorically for a thinking pause associated with the taking of a deep breath...for the undead.

“I am dead therefore...I am not...”

Would a philosophic double negative mean: I’m alive?

Live in denial.

He chuckled, lips twitching at the corners, his inner man mirth pulling, begging for a full smile. There should be nothing funny in existentialism

“Bunch of jokeless wonders, with no fuckin’ punch-line there...’cept the one that KNOCKED ME OUT...”

Gray eyes glowed, the corners angled up like a feline.

“Not my forte anyway--I think with my blood…”

He stopped.

Everything, everything led back to her...

Sometimes it’s not the event, but the time in between that makes us or breaks us. The old fashioned small moments of your life, when you can be caught unawares, when you don’t have time to prepare or put on your game face--that’s when the native flag is flown in the true colors of the old country.

When you’re in the mix, right there, right there caught up in it at the very top of what’s happening it can be so easy to think that that is the moment that requires courage.

“It’s got such a high profile don’t ya know...”

His hand went absently to his breast pocket, feeling for the familiar box shape that represented relief, a way to ease into this thinking process...no smokes...shit.

So we do this the hard way.

But after this past year, what with every day just being a grind to get through, he would be hard pressed, primped and dressed to say who better deserves the MBE.

Those who play ‘Atlas’ putting their shoulder to the apocalyptic wheel of fortune or those sods, those poor sods who just get up, get up every day and go to work, go to their bloody boring jobs--and not only go through that torture daily, but do it WITH A CONSCIENCE.

In contrast…fuck…it’s easy, so bleedin’ easy to just ride the wave that has a will of its own--and with a will of it’s own, it will carry you--just get on top and let it take you and all the shit you can pack, whatever fits. All the hard work’s been done; all the decisions great and small have been made; and how bleedin’ stupid is it, that the moment that gets the most ribbons and bows, applause and sauce…is really the easiest.

But I will brag on this...may not be the sanest bloke on the block “BUT I will do it. I’ll bloody well do it...I’m not all talk...”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, sensing someone there.

“But you blokes do all the background work don’t you then? You want to make us think it’s us, it’s me...but I doubt it...I do doubt it...”

“But you can hang on…”

The voice came from behind him or rather from around him or rather--

“Oh aye, ta...and with the bloody best of ‘em...you know its true”

“Yes, I think we do.”

“What I lack...I make up for--“

“More than make up for”--the voice agreed.

“In....what’s the word?”

“Fortitude?”

“Nah...Well maybe, but I was thinkin’...boneheaded.”

He threw back his head and laughed. It was a hard barking sound that snapped at his feline grace. And the harshness of it was jangled back into tune by the deep musical laugh of the tall woman stepping into the light so he could view, so he could see...

“Joyce.”

“Hello Spike.”

Her deep voice carried the smile that just skimmed the surface of her face as she continued to speak.

“Determination, single minded...”

“Boneheaded...”

She laughed again “Reminds me of someone...”

Immediately Spike thought of the Slayer, her image shining before him. Joyce came and stood close behind him to peer over his shoulder to see what he saw.

“God” He breathed, he moaned. ”Joyce...”

In answer she placed her hand on his shoulder.

“God I love her...”

“I know my child.” She held on to his shoulder, the warmth from her fingers seeping into his being, calming him, calming him...

“How can anyone love anybody this much?”

In answer and from where she stood behind him she wrapped her arm around his chest and held on until she felt his breathing hitch and a sob break from his body.

“T’snt’ right, t’ain’t natural, must be something wrong with me…follows me everywhere, she does, into my sleep, into my dreams…”

“Oh my boy, my child...”

She kissed the back of his head and pressed her forehead on the back of his head and breathed with him until slowly he calmed, his breathing evened--she kissed the back of his head again and slowly relaxed her embrace.

They waited together in silence letting his mind be filled with nothing, the absolute bliss of nothing. When he was ready, Spike shyly turned to face her.

“Good to see you by the way...beautiful as always an’ all”

She smiled at him. He was always one of her favorites; even back at the beginning. Never knew why, she never really understood or questioned her affection for Spike. Feeding him hot chocolate and conversation, she didn’t find out ‘why’ until much, much later, but how very amazing a Mothers instinct can be, indeed--which is why she was here.

“Spike...do you know where you are?”

That wasn’t a question he had considered asking. When in a dream, you don’t stop and bloody well reflect on being in a dream. They only do that in the flicks as a cheap device to let the audience know that this was a dream.

“Spike, do you remember what happened?” Her voice was gentle as she continued.

“How you came to be here?”

The sweet timber of her voice pulled persuasively on the strings binding Spikes memory.

“Do we have to talk about it? Can’t we just--“

“No Spike, you need to catch up to where you are. We need to catch you up. We have a lot to cover.

Her voice, like gentle but firm fingers searching, finding the single string to release a bundle of sticks that fell like spikes and one by one the memories fell over and locked into place.

His voice was horse...”yeah...I’m getting it all now.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve got it.”

The slayer, the soul, the light…

The slayers image rose before him, he dared not even think her name and thrust it away.

“Not yet...”

“That’s all right, it’s all right,” Joyce soothed, “time enough...So--we were talking about fortitude, free will…”

“Uh...yeah...”

“So better…that is, more valued, in the long rung, in the big picture, better than physical strength, better than skill--“

“Cunning--“

“Intelligence--“

“UH, we might need to debate that one, being bloody stupid can really destroy the world--“

“Poetry, Wealth, power or...”

“Love?”

“Is will...”

Beat. Joyce spoke softly

“Will.”

Beat. So very soft.

“William.”

Joyce contemplated him quietly.

He sat for a moment. “More important than love?”

Joyce considered before answering. “Love is the incentive, the beginning of all and everything that binds desire to...action. Love is the beginning but without Will--without William.”

Spike’s brow furrowed slightly. “Where you going Mum?”

She smiled at the familiarity. She liked it.

“Every name, everyone’s name contains the text, the, oh I don’t know, the placard of who they are. What they can be. And you pick that name before you are born; your soul whispers it usually to your Mother, or perhaps the closest soul in your spiritual tribe, whoever it is who has the power to name you. That’s how important a name is. Everyone’s name is a gift and a guidebook, the all in all.”

Buffy.

The name was there, unbidden, unasked for, on automatic as always.

Buffed up to be shiny bright and best.

Joyce nodded at the thought running through his mind. “Yes that’s right, you’ve got it.”

“And Joyce...joy...”

“Yes, that was my gift; to help keep joy present in my family’s life.”

“Dawn, of course, self evident“

They laughed together at the thought of Dawn; so fresh and almost impudent.

“Nibblet...” Spike sighed. “She pulled herself so far away from me this last year--can’t say as I blame her...”

“Yes, well…with her world constantly falling apart she had to find a way to control it. Everyone’s role kept changing. You’re good, you’re bad, you’re--“

“Assface.” Spike interrupted her continuing with the nana bana name game.

“No, that’s not your given name; a curse from another person doesn’t count.” Joyce explained.

“Well...what about...’Spike’?”

“Well,” Joyce smiled, now they were getting to the good part. “That was your given name being born as a vampire. But think about it. To ‘spike’ is to take dynamic action, it is decisive force. To use you’re ‘Will’.”

“No one laughs at puns anymore Joyce, that’s the comics Passover holiday.”

Joyce and Spike smiled quietly together.

As she considered him, her eyes glowed.

“Well done my faithful and devoted friend.”

The words were unexpected and hung in the air and Joyce’s lips did not move as she spoke them and it was not her voice, but the eternal texture of her love that imbued the words with power. The love he had always felt coming from her--the love of Parent to child, of creator to creation. So easy, she could make it seem so easy. All he had to do was accept--

“So.” Spike didn’t feel secure enough by any means to absorb her words or the embrace behind them, so he said this.

“Well, well...this is death. Funny, always thought there’d be…dunno...more, well…walls maybe? Walls painted black with a red parquet floor and maybe posters--Marilynn Manson, Gloria Estafan, the Back Street Boys maybe--“

“Please.” Joyce was indignant. “Did you think you would ever catch me, with my fine aesthetic in a room designed by teenage angst?”

As they looked in tandem at the fill-in-the-blank around them--it did. The empty space quietly coalesced and became the missing center for that 10,000 piece puzzle of a dew-kissed English landscape left unfinished in the basement for years and years but now look (oh happy idyllic day!); see each piece come together and watch the blank join hands with colors common and un.

In other words, or rather in a single word: pretty.

They stood quietly together in a large pavilion constructed of marble. The marble was pink, with white and blue veins feeding the expanse to break the monotony of sweet bliss.

The pillars were strong and held the weight of the roof firmly and without question. The pavilion was greeted on all four sides by a sweet green country vista. At the low end of hill, a small brook, the sparkle of moving water was added as an authors aside.

“Hmm looks like the English countryside, all green and wet an al’...in the morning maybe, after the rain...”

Joyce elbowed him. “Why Spike…getting a little vemclemphed?”

“Feelin’ more and more like William. William and all those bloody boat rides.”

“Ah yes, reaching out your hand to dangle it in the water, fingers just skimming the surface, it felt--“

“--Like flying.” Spike finished.

Their attention was caught by the sensation of movement behind the line of trees. There was something out there on the water. It was a small rowboat gliding past.

“I used to like to catch the current, put the oars up and just let the boat go where it wanted as fast or slow as it would...”

Spike’s vocal pattern had slipped back into the idiom of Victorian standard English as he recalled that day, those, summer days.

“Joyce...” Spike wasn’t sure how to ask this,

Joyce waited, her gaze following the boat on the river as it drifted out of sight. “Hmm yes?”

“Well it’s a bit confusing, see...” Spike looked inside himself considering. “I can feel my soul, just as clean as it ever was, maybe better, and just the same as when...you know, that thing Buffy gave me, that Za Za Gabor knockoff took hold, but...I can feel the ‘other’ too. It’s still here. Not as...sharp or demanding but its here. And by all rights the demon should take me to hell. Not complaining mind, or maybe I’m still going to hell, and you stopped by to see me off?”

“Do you believe angels can fall?”

Spike snorted, of course whenever he heard that word; ‘angel’, it ONLY meant one thing,

“I bloody well do indeed.”

“Then why can’t demons rise?” Joyce asked simply.

Why not indeed?

Your demon under the tutelage of William’s character and humanity made a free will choice to crawl up out of hell. Why should you go back? Do you want to go back?

“NO!” Spike/William said.

“There you have it.”

“So...we’re together now...we’re one person?”

“Souls do combine. They can also divide-into quite a few. Sometimes a soul will do that to guarantee a solid team working towards a goal. This kind of agreement is usually made in-between incarnations. But there are exceptions, improvisations performed in the light of changing circumstance and free will choice. So William and the demon forged an alliance. When and where and how, I cannot see. There is a hall of records if you are interested…”

(Hate research thought Spike-no, lets go, pants William)

“….Exactly. And you’re getting along, for the most part. You’ve done a job together that neither could have done on you’re own. So, with your demon becoming an angel-“

“-Uh, ‘nother word if you please Mum-“

“With your demon using it’s free will choice to become a ‘good guy’ powerful energy was released into the fabric of time and space.”

“But when did William agree?”

And Spike’s voice trailed off as the image sprang forward and he was there again in William’s body, a single soul feeling what he had been feeling while alive on Earth. That particular state of aloneness, not loneliness, no; instead, it was the feeling of being incredibly singular. With the exception of the love he received from his Mother, he had no real ties to his own world.

Joyce smiled and spoke softly, confidently. “Funny you should ask, let’s watch shall we?”

One of the open sides of the pavilion was filled with this:

Young William laying flat on his back, hands outstretched trying to touch the tops of the trees scratching the sky.

“You were always looking, being pulled toward...something”

William gazing at Cecily, one could almost see him closing his eyes-squinting them tight to her worldly imperfections; focusing only on her spirit, her soul, the part of heaven alive in her. And when you look at someone like that, one can only love...

He was destined for heartbreak.

And now, here he was in the alleyway with Drusilla. She ‘sees’ him.

Her eyes boring into his, looking for agreement, looking for...

Permission.

Spike considered this information for moment.

“So William... that is…I…” He corrected tightly. “I agreed to all this, the whole bleedin’ setup?”

“In a matter of speaking. William, by virtue of being who he was, who you are, couldn’t help but make that decision, that day. Perhaps we are all built to break sometimes for the sake of the bigger picture. Who can say? I can’t, because I don’t have access to the records of hell, but I suspect the same might be said for your demon.”

“But all this, all this...to take me where...”

“Well to quote Dawn, ‘duh,’ I’d have thought that was obvious.”

“Just some bleedin’ puppet?”

Joyce’s voice was softer now, “No, no...the script is written the actors are cast but as in a stage play, a live, living play, things can go wrong, or right…depending on your point of view. Set pieces can fall, and actor can suddenly decide to say something else--how well you perform your role--that is the element of free will.”

“But...if I’m a…what? A bloody upstart or what all--then even that has been written in, so even that is being controlled.”

“But think of it-the dangerous aspect of ‘enter rebel’ always put heaven on edge, No one was ever really SURE of what you might do. It made for exciting theatre I must say. You just claimed your free will more than most do; of course you had the inclination to be that way. But in the end who can really guarantee what you will do--who can say?”

“Let’s shorthand this s’alright? So William wants,” Spike corrected himself. “Needs this thing, shining and so bright it drowns him out, and the demon once exposed to it, takes the bait and has the will to make it happen.”

“Pretty close, fairly real. The cosmos need to be fed.”

She paused for a moment to let this sink in.

“Just like any creature or creation...the energy released into the body after feeding is much the same principal as the ALL being powered up by the energy released from the action taken after a decision toward good or evil. ‘Good’ action toward sponsoring creation feeds Light, ‘Bad’ or destruction feeds Dark”.

“So we’re all just a bunch of Weatabix in blood, all our lives, all that love and pain, just snackin’ food for God?”

Joyce shrugged, her gold hair so much like her daughters falling a little over her face.

“Again, it depends on your point of view.”

“Well...don’t think I much care for that.”

“Oh don’t feel too used Spike, you threw the wrench into the works often enough for even heaven to be humbled by its own huberious.”

Spike thought about sulking some more, than sighed. “I’m not one to get off on the comfort of prison, any prison--some do, you know. Some blokes count on the bars--it feels safe, don’t have to work too hard...”

“You are the wild card...”

“Well...yeah.”

“You have quite a little fan club up here you know.”

“Groupies?” Spike leered, his eyebrow arched suggestively.

“Well. More like an audience addicted to a soap opera. Time is we’d all sit around and watch you for a pick me up.”

“You think the ratings will go down now I’m gone?”

Pause.

“That’s another discussion altogether. First things first--you’ve heard that expression ‘his whole life flashed in front of his eyes.’”

Shit. Spike’s mouth set in a grim line.

“Parties over, eh luv?”

“Well, in this last year you’ve already completed a lot of that review while still alive...”

“Like some bloody episode of MASH that you keep tuning into to. Every time you turn on the bleedin set it’s that same damn episode, trapped with Alan Alda and his self righteous self analysis. Yeah...definitely BEEN THERE.”

“So lets’ pick and choose shall we?”

Bullocks.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 2

She glanced around the kitchen, the large open space that used to be the kitchen on a working family farm. It was just right really. This was just the right setting of domestic tranquility needed now for practicing impermanence. The stability of a 100 year old house to live their impermanent lives in. What a word. Impermanence.

Did that come out of me? Buffy mused. I didn’t even know that was in my vocabulary. Lots of things in me I didn’t know about. Symbolic much?

Vi had called her Grandmother from the hospital yesterday (now and forevermore referred to as that day) and the older woman had insisted Vi bring them all, them all, no exceptions, plenty of room for all in the old farmhouse--plus there was the barn, wasn’t there? If they needed even more room and shouldn’t they all stay together for awhile?) And seeing it was only about an hour and half from the hospital and roughly the same distance to...well, you know where.

It had seemed logical and the notion of being in the country felt...right, comforting somehow. Healing.

Vi and Dawn had taken over the logistics of planning, once the decision had been made. They did this quietly and efficiently, drawing the least amount of attention possible to any effort they extended toward the others. This was the true evidence of the interlocking parts of the Buffy machine. The apocalypse gob stoppers. They were a team that had learned how to work together, utilizing strengths and pointing that strength to the appropriate hard knock.

Knock, knock (who’s there?)

She couldn’t think of a single refrain, nothing left over from grammar school, nothing left over from non stop quick quipping, nothing left but to let them take the reins; she did this willingly as it was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on anything but nothing as that day wore on.

There was…that feeling...that feeling that she was forgetting something...something important. The space where the mind lapses, you walk into a room with the intention of doing something...and for the life of you, you just can’t remember what it was when you get there...that’s o.k. it’ll come to me, it’ll come back.

And then inexplicably she found herself washed and bandaged and between cool clean sheets scented with lavender.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buffy woke very slowly, something, some survival instinct, some alarm, warned, like the alarm you set before falling asleep, some crazy wake up call you never imagined you would ever have to hear--something said that she wouldn’t like what was on the other side of sunrise. And it was telling her all this all in CAPS. Her arm stretched behind her to find Spikes right arm, the one he used to hug, to spoon her body to his. They had only slept this way for a couple of nights, but already it had the familiarity of...what? An old married couple. Given what they had gone through together, she guessed that is what they were. All this passed through her mind, one thought chasing another, lickety split. She liked to run her thumb over his flesh in small strokes. Even while he was asleep she could feel his body resonate and respond to her touch. He was like a musical instrument. He was music. Where was he?

A bit disconcerted at not finding his arm where it should be, she didn’t like it when he rolled away from her while they slept, it felt like an omen of some kind, but then everything was a harbinger of something these days.

Her arm stretched out as her eyes snapped open.

No.

NO.

She kept the scream inside. Survival instinct in a warrior contained the sound, couldn’t say a thing, don’t move until you remember...where you are...what happened...

And she did. It all came back. No avalanche of information downloaded could compare. Maybe a new computer system getting the history of the past two centuries within a 5 second time frame, maybe THAT could compare. At the time she had felt nothing could be worse. And the only thing keeping her from melting away, now, the only thing keeping her from a complete meltdown was the memory of the dream, that dream. Or was the dream a memory of something real? Yes, oh thank god for that, it was real, it was the last night, before that morning. She and Spike had been holding each other as if their hearts would break. Together again on the basement floor of her dead mothers house.

She waited for the fall. The crash into the pain that she knew was there deep inside her waiting, waiting. But it didn’t surface. Something was cushioning her fall. Some warm, encasement around her emotional body, holding the pain, far away, away. Magic? Did Willow do a spell on her? But even the thought of that interference brought nothing, no anger. She could see it all, how she felt, how she would feel, but it was far away. She was up in the clouds held tight, cushioned, and she could see it all but it was so far away.

“What a little princess I am.” Buffy lay on the comfortable bed in the old farm house and she let herself float. She could still feel her womb alive and humming and absorbing every drop Spike had given her. She let herself slip into the comfortable place, her slayer healer, her easy bake oven and allowed herself to relax. With her eyes closed she could still tune into the energetic pattern that shot through her system when she and Spike and pressed their hands palm to palm. Oh...of course, that was the cushion. The cushion was the gift of that incredible…peace. Always Spike.

Something from Shakespeare flashed through her mind, she gave it no special attention, a mild look--a palmers kiss, hands pressed palm to palm…’then let lips do as...something, something’...she would look it up later...instead she turned her attention to the energy Spike had shared with her. It was the gold singing in her veins and if she focused only on that, she knew it would keep her drugged for days, for she knew --and God help her when she did-- she knew she would come down.

It would happen. Day by day the space he occupied in her life, her world, would become clearer and more obvious until overwhelming. Day by day, instead of less and less, she would come to feel that lack more-always it would be more, always more. Maximums, not minimums.

God, her thoughts were becoming strangers to her.

Day 6

“You lost your man in battle.”

It came, it sounded out as part statement, part query, and part-time psychologist.

It was a sweet low gentle voice, bass tones chuckling with just the right crackle of age. Old enough to sound wise, limber enough to be a half of a character shy of Margaret Hamilton’s Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz.”. And no matter what evil Buffy ever faced ever, all would be weighed and left wanting in comparison with that particular performance.

But then, of course the evil you were exposed to as a child will always have the greatest and most lasting impression. And what does it matter if something isn’t real as long as it affects you like it is?

“You lost your man in battle.”

Now it was a full statement. It was Vi’s grandmother. Buffy had recognized the voice immediately. And the power and authority that was present in an unassuming way. When she spoke, the clatter of conversation dimmed of its own accord and as if of one mind, all deferred to the old woman and listened to her, to catch whatever crumbs they could. It always seemed worth the effort to pay attention, to sit up and take some healing balm, something, and anything to help make sense of loss.

Buffy was no exception. The events of the past few weeks had taught her more humility than a slayer probably should possess. She needed to listen to a wise woman. Well, it was, after all, every village treasure.

Vi’s grandmother Greata.

Greata was on the front porch snapping beans. Rocking, quietly smiling to herself at herself. How very picturesque. Is it a cliché if it’s actually true? Wise ole woman, snappin beans, rockin’ away as the sun began to set. She chuckled. At least she wasn’t wearing an apron and flower print dress. Now that would be TOO much. She waited for Buffy. The girl. So thin, so small really and yet not at all...not small, no definitely not.

Greata could feel her standing behind the front screen door watching the sun set. And like wooing a barely tamed kitten, she had to wait...

Old words twisted together into almost a poem.

And he wasn’t. The word was too small, too young and unschooled for whatever it was he was to her.

“Yes…” She spoke quietly, in answer to Greata.

“I lost my man in battle...”

Finally the truth. It felt good, well not good, a relief maybe to speak it out loud.

Greata sighed. Snap, snap, snapped beans.

“Yeah...yeah, that’s hard, it’s...” her voice trailed away as if remembering. It was how her voice faded off that drew Buffy outside to look at Greata more closely. Screen door open and sweet iron squeaking as it closed. Some sounds just felt like...home. Buffy was glad to be here so grateful, they all were. It helped.

Greata inhaled a deep breath and allowed her hands to quiet down into her lap and rested her head against the back board of the rocker with her eyes closed for a moment. Just a moment to center herself and see...

Buffy sat down on the top step watching her all the while. With her slayer senses she watched Greata open up her third eye and stretch out and up, looking, looking.

Greata’s head jerked, a little startled and then her head relaxed and her body eased from the inside out.

She chuckled. She couldn’t help it and shook her head in wonder.

“Well I must say...he was a pistol...wasn’t he?”

Buffy choked a little at the quaint old fashioned expression, but damn it if it didn’t suit him.

Greata chuckled. “Oh yes, a real piece of work...” She took another deep breath and opened her eyes looking directly into Buffy’s.

“God broke the mold after that one. Probably figured there wasn’t room in all creation for the likes of more than one of him, ‘cept maybe...you.”

Buffy was smiling. She was pleased, oddly pleased that Greata seemed to like him. Not many did.

“He always said things like that, about how much alike we are.” She almost corrected herself to past tense but did not, and would not. Buffy continued. “I never saw it.”

“Nah, nah...you wouldn’t. You’re too close to tell on yourself. But he had inherited the gift, you see, of sight. Somewhat. He had the ability to see into people, into situations. You are a puzzle to many, because you can feel two different emotions at the same time. And still be…effective as a warrior. Part of the double duty of your nature. He likes that. Doesn’t always understand you completely, but understands you better than anyone else in your life. But, that’s all right. Can’t give it ALL away can we? Some things a woman’s gotta keep a mystery even to her man.”

Greata chuckled again as if hearing something in response. “…He’s funny…a little pigheaded maybe but honest, so honest and he loves you so. He loves you. And the other one...long dark hair...”

“Dawn...”

“Yuh. But you know that.”

“Yes.”

Greata smiled again and resumed rocking. “I like him. I like your man Buffy.”

“Most people...”

“Pffft...goodness gracious girl. Why a woman as strong as and as bullheaded as you let yourself be ruled by what others say and think is...”

She stopped herself suddenly and then chased after Buffy with an interesting realization.

“Except of course...when you wanted them to think badly of him…because then, they’re distrust of him would be a wall you could stand behind. And then when you started to change toward him, you never gave them the information they needed to help them form a new opinion. To them, your friends and family, you just look plain crazy. You can fix it. If you want to.”

“Spike wasn’t human...”

“I know full well what he was and wasn’t--no I take that back. The creator only lets me see so much, gotta keep some secrets to himself--but I saw enough.” She paused for a moment considering and then spoke again, amazed.

“He’s strong. Very strong and there are so many different ways to be strong and have courage and what some could call weakness would be his greatest strength. But you know that, you believed in him…and you’re a leader...a whatcha call it? Well, whatever, that’s what you are and what do you do with your strongest warrior Buffy?”

Buffy looks away.

“That’s right. You give them the most to carry. You did the right thing. You won’t and shouldn’t kick yourself because you know that. And. And he had a long life and he went from white to black and back. And there’s not many people on this earth, or this universe that can be up, fall down, and crawl all the way back up and farther than before while carrying a demon on their back and nothing but one small star from heaven to guide them. One small speck of light of love that he just wouldn’t let die. Nope. Why you ashamed of that, you’ll have to explain.”

“I’m not.” Buffy’s voice was firm. “Not anymore, not for a long time...”

Greata sighed. “I know. I know...I’m sorry dear. It pains me I guess, it pains me a bit more...it hurts to see you separated. World needs love. It needs love like that so very much. Love like that between a man and woman these days is almost a miracle. Two people doing the hard work on themselves. As soon as somebody gets so much as spaghetti sauce on their chin it shatters the dream of the perfect ‘soul mate’-which is all right in a way because it should be shattered but then it’s--off they go, ‘moving on’, ‘getting over it’-absolutely hate those phrases I hear on the t.v.” She looked at Buffy and said emphatically: “People are not chairs you can replace at a table!”

Greata sighed, leaned back into her rocker and they waited together quietly to see what else there was to be said. It came quickly.

“I see one in your life like...like the roots of a great tree going straight into the ground. Feeding you, keeping you strong, upright and righteous, and loving you second only to the creators love for you. And I see another, like the elements, the wind that blows in a storm, rain crashing down in tears, all brooding drama.” She laughs. “Princes in castles, Vi used to read those books, but a girls gotta find out on her own, doesn’t she? What’s real, what’s worth the effort. One of these two men holds you steady, the other whirls around you, coming and going but always wanting to be at the center of your attention. The whirligig might make you stronger true, but only if you’re left standing. The thing is, do you know which one is which?”

Buffy’s heart did a little double beat.

“I see you looking at an orange and calling it an apple. Look at a pair and call it nothing. Not quite a pun but I like the image. Think I’ll keep it. So. Which is which?”

“Does it matter?” Buffy was getting irritated. It was always so easy to look in from the outside and call a play that you couldn’t possibly handle yourself--bystander back seat drivers. Buffy paused for breath and then barked.

“One of them is gone.”

“Yes.” Greata’s reply was quiet. “Yes, it matters very much. This poor world needs love; the love between men and women that can survive and grow something. Be wise with your heart. Your life is not over. You have the ability to accept most folks for who and what they are in the moment and let God judge them for their past, you won’t.”

Greata almost wagged a finger at Buffy. “You don’t loose that Buffy; it’s one of your best traits. Mercy...oh my dear, how sweet, how merciful you can be...” Greata looked at Buffy

“Now. Ask your question”

“Is he o.k.? He’s not in...I mean…” Buffy stammered herself into silence, she honestly couldn’t say the word let alone think of the place...

(Bloody hell...)

Exactly.

“It’s just. I can’t feel him. You know, around me...at all. After my Mom died, after about a month or so, I could sometimes feel her around. Or she would pop up in my mind unexpected or in a dream. And he...it’s like he not there, not anywhere or...or he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

These were more words than Buffy had put together for a while and she had to stop and do a little breathing.

Greata took up the slack in the conversation.

“Well you know, with the life he had, his review is gonna take a while. You know that after you pass, you have to watch everything you ever did play out before you. You feel it all again. That. And you feel what the other people around you felt. A nasty word here or there and you feel how it affected the other person and how they in turn affected those near them. It’s the domino effect throughout all time and beyond. Our actions and thoughts never stand by themselves. Now they gotta go through his life review carefully cause what’s the point in doing that if it’s so hard it breaks the heart he’s built?

So it’ll take some time. Try not to worry. I still see you two with unfinished business. I don’t know about that word-the “hell” thing. But when I look, I feel all kinds of love and respect for him, where he is, coming to him from a lot of different places. He has people who love him over there to hold him, plus it looks like he got a hero’s welcome. Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook of a life review. Nobody can escape that. So he’s in school and may be for awhile.”

“He won’t like that. He can’t stand looking back.” Buffy sounded almost winsome.

“No he bloody well can’t…”

Buffy started at the near perfect inflection of Spikes accent coming out of the older woman and then burst out laughing.

Greata joined in. Oh my, how beautiful is the sound of laughter. Laughter breaking open in the air is like the sound of a soul applauding--the voice hap slapping the air with breath and yodel yell and all.

Laughter is applause, applause at how crazy life can be.

Buffy shakes her head and stills. Suddenly still.

“Greata...”

“Hmmm...”

“I’m afraid.”

Greata holds her breath and waits.

Buffy’s voice barely a whisper:

“What if it happens... what if...I mean, I can feel it already building, what happens if I let it come all the way, all the way alive inside me how much I love him. And he’s not even here…what happens to me if I find out how much I really love him? What’ll happen to me? What’ll I do?”

“Let him know.”

Snap, snap, snapping beans.

*

Spike wondered, pondered almost mused.

Hmm. Hmmm indeed. Which would be better? That is, which would more advantageous for the bearer of the burden. To be the bloke that dropped the BOMB on Nagasaki. Killing a million people all at once and in one fell swoop if you will. OR. Or be the bloody bastard who killed, oh say, close to 200,000 oh no that’s no good, you can’t round a figure like that down, be specific, say killed 204,232 people but. But. One by one. Which door would you choose? To experience the impact of a million souls simultaneously crying out in pain, confusion, fear and sorrow at the end of a sentence. And be done with it. Or a buffet, a multiplicity of death, but broken down, broken apart from life and dreams of love--all broken one...by one, by one.

Hmm which one of these?

His sense of humor (and her) had kept him alive that last year and had kept him flexible the previous 128. But now this same humor was turning into a tool against him in his own hands. It wanted to break him laughing for laughing.

“Whataya think Joyce? Door number 1 or door number 2? The tiger or the lady? I mean they’re both war time scenarios right?”

It wasn’t hard to miss the fact that murder committed in the act of war, when the action remained that of ‘doing ones job’ had it’s consequences in lives broken, family members torn apart-but…but it wasn’t anywhere near the extremity in judgment as that of malicious foreknowledge. But either in wartime or no, there was a special chair in this review reserved for those who delighted in destruction. And truth being told most of Spike’s kills had been technically for survival and fell under the intention of ‘act of war’ but it still hurt, it ripped him from inside to out-because lets face it, believing yourself to be righteous as one does during war time does not the lesson the pain a victim feels when her heart is ripped out. Literally. And this little surround a sound review in living/dying color made sure he felt that pain. All of it. Every murder every mean word, every, every--(Ah, remember #8,435?-She had long red gold hair and he had killed her four days from her wedding day and her fiancé was so distraught he’d killed himself and then alone and without resources his Mother and then eventually his two young sisters fell into prostitution-poor Sophie only 12 years old and barely able to understand how or why her body and soul were being ripped in two-went mad…and on it went) Most of Spike kills were like that. Not tortured as Angel or even Dru may have done but crimes of separation and deep bereavement. Lovers separated, beloved lost and the almost unstoppable spiral of pain through time that was finally, finally wound down to zero by a single person, a single descendant’s decision to forgive someone, sometime for something.

And they hadn’t even gotten to the ones he dreaded the most. So. Could he make a post mortem deal?

“So whataya say I trade going through this one by one for dropping the atom bomb eh?”

Joyce waited until he was finished and spoke in her best ’mom’ voice:

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“No, I bloody well got the point.’’ His voice broke as he spit the words out: “Two points in fact, IN FANGS. Two sharp points driven into…oh, I’d say about 204,232 necks wouldn’t ya say? What am I doing here Mum? Just send me to hell, just bloody do it, anything has to better than this.”

She came up close to him and looked him full in the face and spoke evenly.

“Is that really, really what you want?”

Spike made no answer but held her gaze, melting, softening under her quiet reprimand.

“If you leave here without finishing the review, you’re finished. That’s it. What you learn here in this dimension is real, it matters, this moment now, the decisions you make here are as important as the ones in the dimension we are reviewing. Do you understand?”

And then almost as an aside.

“If you leave, you will never see her again.”

“Under the circumstances, not necessarily a bad idea-“

“Be quiet Spike, think before you speak.”

“It always comes to that. She’s dangled like a carrot in front of me. I don’t know if I really ever had any lofty ideas ‘bout savin’ the world, maybe in part, yeah, I wanted to help stop the pain, the hurting, but mostly…only…wanted to save her. Couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bloody bear to see her suffer, I don’t know if I can ever change that. What’s this review gonna change? I see the people around me, not the world-“

“And what’s wrong with that?” Joyce stopped him with her sharp voice. “What does the world matter if the people in it aren’t real to you? It’s the anonymous face that can make a certain kind of cruelty easy, the cruelty that you are susceptible to. You would never dream of hurting the people you love-what you are beginning to understand is that most people in the world are loved by someone, and if not by the people in this world than by the beings in the next. Loving a few people has let other people’s stories become real for you. We want the world to be better so it will be better for our friends and family. If you can love the people next to you then maybe you can love the ones a little further away. That’s where it begins, that’s how it begins. The ones who are the most dedicated are the ones who have the most to loose.”

Her voice softened now almost gently stroking.

“There are a lot of souls who believe in you Spike, who have gone out on a limb and spoken in your behalf. Most of whom you have never met. All those little twinkles of good luck in your life…hmm? Every time you fought to make something happen, to change something using your own free will choice, bought you another fan, another thumbs up, another wink of luck. Somebody else up here saying, yeah, yeah, give that guy the ball-he’ll run with it. You’ve fought for it yes and not with the benefit of a whole lot of destiny working on your behalf-but don’t ever think you were alone. Now. I’ve seen you be a lot of things, but I’d never thought I’d see you indulge yourself, well, like ...the Poof.”

Spike stared, stammered....”Wwwhat...wwhat did you say?”

She tried out the phrase again, sweetly befuddled.

“Oh dear…did I get it wrong? It is ‘The Poof’ isn’t it? What you call him? Or is it “Poofter”? I forget.” She shook her head.

Watching, hearing his description of Peaches coming out of her mouth was too, too rich, too sweet and the giggle that started deep inside Spike made a mad dash to a laugh.

“Oh Joyce...I love you...” He spurted out between gales and tears of mirthy mirth.

She looked at him kindly “I know you do”. She continued.

“Now, things are going to get worse for a little while but then they’ll get better, you did some good things in your life too you know and we’ll view those as well, but you have to look at this process differently or frankly, you won’t make it. Is that straight enough for you? This is not a hell dimension, this is not torture, and you can learn if you want to.”

She stopped suddenly seized with an idea. “Think like a detective, like one of those old shows we used to watch--the reruns, you know like...Columbo..”

“Colombo...pfft Mum please...”

Joyce smiled, the derision in his voice was obvious and entertaining and he was back on course, he was going to be fine, well fine for Spike...

“Colombo!” He was still ranting. “With that coat? Pffft!”

“Hercule Peroit?” Joyce suggested.

“FRENCH!”

“Well then?--“

“Miss Marple.”

Joyce was shocked once again with a Spike surprise. “Well that’s gotta be William talking.”

“Well...yeah. What of it?”

“Nothing. Miss Marple it is.”

“I like Miss Marple. Everyone always underestimates her. And then she nails ‘em. SLAM. Very gratifying. Don’t ever underestimate Miss Marple.”

Joyce looked at him keenly. “No, I don’t think we should. So when things get too hot think...”

“Miss Marple.”

“Alright then.”

Spike felt himself being buffeted almost beloved from behind, he turned slightly and realized more beings or whatever they called themselves were standing behind him. Some were standing on the grass beyond looking in his direction; some were strolling along toward him. He didn’t recognize them, but they seemed kindly and…strong.

Spike cleared his throat...”The uh...fan club?”

Joyce nodded, “Just a little cushion”-

--“For the fall? Great bloody just bleedin’ great.”

“They are all warriors of one kind or another. They will be able to empathize with you and support you without judgment.”

Spike continued muttering “Bleedin fan club no less...well… s’long as they don’t rush the stage.”

“I think you’re safe.”

*

Day 32

Once a Slayer...

Once a slayer, always a slayer.

Hmmm. Buffy mused without rancor as she plucked a rather rotund tomato worm off the underside of a grouping of leaves. She was on delousing duty in Grandma Greata’s garden. Hmm…almost prosaic. Another odd word in her vocab. She hadn’t felt like going in to town with Vi and Dawn and all the girls still staying at the house, and the trip to the library with Giles felt too much like practicing the violin, which she of course, would never play. Faith was crashed at motel near the hospital; Robin would get released any day now. Xander and Willow went horseback riding of all things. They stayed very close together these days. That’s good. It’s good. Kennedy had gone back east and when it happened it just seemed natural. Willow accepted the change with barely a blink. We’re all getting too used to loss. But thank god Will is here to hold Xander’s hand. Buffy still felt too far away to be of much emotional assistance to anyone, or for anyone to be of help to her. Not that anyone would have thought to--because to the whole world she looked fine, just fine.

Buffy snagged another gigantic green wormy crawly thing. So her slayer skills were required in an effort to keep the critter population down.

Go organic!

She dropped another of the ferocious looking green things into a bucket of hot water sitting next to her feet. The receptacle was being used to drown the poor things. Curious, she received no slayer satisfaction as the poor things died. On the contrary. Quite contrary.

Maybe I can tell Greata I’m getting sunstroke or something. She just didn’t want to kill one. More. Thing.

Who was she kidding? She could kill and kill and kill again. She was a brick house.

Buffy sang the Commadore’s tune outloud...

“I’m a briiick HOUSE, I’m mighty, mighty...”

That was part of the problem.

That was part of the solution.

Little goose flesh. Little tiny shivers rippling over, just skimming the surface of her skin and then the sensation, the nestling coming to rest at the nape of her neck.

Demon.

She looked, her face twisting slightly as she looked at the bucket o’ worms. She looked at the ones still squirming in the water. Little ugly buggers. Mini demons? But she knew right away--no way, so what then? No, no the feeling, the density came from out there. Somewhere out there, on the highway. Day 32 and already demons were a novelty. Pfft. This life after wartime could make you soft.

Her feet started walking almost unbidden by her mind. Hand on her straw sunhat holding the brim over her eyes, scanning, scoping and then: There. It was moving very fast. She saw it now, red. Maybe red, yes, shiny and red and...body by Volkswagen. A demon car? What was Stephen King’s car? Christine? Well, she’d bloody well faced everything else, why not a demon car?

She watched its progress down the highway, and now there it was, turning right onto the country road, pausing at the end of the driveway with its left turn signal on--coming here, coming up, coming here; demon, but not hostile.

Clem.

“Clem!”

Her heart sprang into action again, (oh so now there you go, now you see?--you’re still alive.) Her heart was banging to beat the band to live another day.

Clem.

The door opened and he got out quietly, shyly.

Thank god all the dogs were out. His tall frame and almost sweet pick eyes were steady on hers. Were they red rimmed from crying? Or maybe they were always red rimmed.

“Clem.”

Spoke so soft, as soft as her footfall on the gravel of the drive. Crunch. Clem.

“Buffy.”

Embrace. They hugged softly carefully. Human arms here, demon bending there and then just held on.

Buffy buried her face in the solid wall that is Clem’s chest. His sorrow offered up to greet hers. This is what she needed. To be with someone else who loved him.

They did not weep they did not speak just held and held and thought as one. My enemy. My friend. Slowly they let go but still stood near each other in case of the need to reach out and touch.

Buffy looked up at him smiling.

“You picked a good time to show. You could have had a handful of young ambitious slayers to shake hands with.”

“Instead of this old hand” Clem addressed her veteran status with respect.

“Yeah, I’m an ole lady.”

“Speaking of which, you gonna introduce me and tell me who or WHAT that is?” Greata cackled at them, stepping outside the protection of the back porch.

“This is Clem...an old friend of the family.”

Clem hugged Buffy impulsively at that. And she almost lost it. Almost.

“Well, come on in the house before somebody driving down the road sees you and takes you for...for a democrat canvassing door to door.”

“Shotgun requirement?” Buffy queried with a smile

“Been known to happen.” Was Greata’s simple reply as she stepped back inside accepting Clem and all his demon glory with barely a shrug. She had always known they had existed; she was a Seer after all. So why not actually SEE it. Or better still, have it in for a cold one.

“You like lemonade?” She called over her shoulder.

Clems eartips almost jingled “Countrytime?”

“Pfft...please. Homemade. Lemons, crushed ice and if you’re a sourpuss I’ll give you some sugar to sweeten you up. You a sourpuss?”

Clem nodded enthusiastically. “Meow.” He growled.

Oh Clem.

He reached back into the car and grabbed a knapsack buried in the back seat and followed Buffy. He watched her carefully as she spoke over her shoulder.

“How did you find me? It’s supposed to be all secret and everything.”

There was a pause and she turned to look at him.

“Now don’t get mad.” For friends who knew each other this could only translate to: Now don’t get mad at him.

“What. What did he do?”

Buffy’s trepidation was obvious but it felt good to be on the familiar ground of his potential misconduct.

“No, no, nothing bad...uh very bad. But you know he was cautious, always had a backup plan, I mean for being impulsive--well you know, he planned ahead. You didn’t live to be his age...” and with this Clem choked realizing what he had just said but continued gamely...”Without instinct-“

“-What’d he do?”

Clem spoke in a rush. “He gave me a bit of your hair to use in a locator spell. For after. That is if-“

“HE WHAT!”

A piece of hair is like an open invitation to a huge host of spells, very, very difficult to reverse. Real damage in the wrong hands. Reading her mind Clem spoke firmly. “I kept it safe.”

Buffy shook her head slowly.

“What if I had died?”

“He uh...gave me...uh-“

“Dawns...”

“Yes. And Giles.”

“Giles, yes well why not? Gotta be thorough.” It felt good, really good to be mad at him, familiar and suddenly:

“I miss him so much and nobody knows.”

Clem nodded and touched her shoulder.

Greata called out to them. “You coming inside or shall I bring Moby Dick out for you to read aloud to each other?”

Clem smiled at Greata. “Hmm...spicy...” and followed Buffy into the house hoisting the knapsack higher onto his back and sighed. Spike.

Greata greeted them, holding out tall glasses of cool liquid, condensation already seeping through to the surface of the glass.

“Lemon Aid” She chuckled.

Or cackled really, Buffy thought. The trio stood in quiet contemplation of the impending lubrication. Clem held his glass up in the gesture of a mini toast.

“To?”

Pause. NO ONE wanted to say the obvious it was Greata who supplied--

“To life after wartime?”

“Life after wartime” Clem and Buffy agreed.

They drank. Liquid trickled down the gullet and then the “Ah!”

Greata sang out:

“Sweet and sour, sweet and sour, Ah! My life hour by hour!”

“What’s that from?” Buffy asked

“Made it up. Made it up, made it up just now for just you...two. I’ll leave you now to catch up.”

Immediately Buffy stopped her.

“No, no please stay, please... you said that you liked him.”

Clem sighed happily at the prospect of a new zealot, a new convert to Spikeism.

“Welcome to club Spike...that isn’t a double negative is it?” He sat down at the table keeping the knapsack handy.

Buffy sat on the open chair at the end of the table and Greata stood by the kitchen sink where she could watch them both. She mused,

“I guess he was the kind of guy you either loved or hated-“

“-Sometimes both…” Buffy and Clem spoke together and stared at each other in childlike glee. They both went for the brass ring:

“Jinx! Can’t talk til I say your name...”

They all laughed, letting it ring out and then subside into sweet stillness, each left with their own thoughts and contemplated the contradictory aspects that was ‘their Spike.’

Silence.

The sound of a couple of birds debating over the occupation of a branch, the sound of a car in desperate need of a muffler working it’s way down the highway.

Silence. Each other. Time to begin.

Buffy at bat.

“So. Clem. Clement. Explain to me why he would do something as dangerous as give you my, that is our hair. I mean I know he trusted you-“

Clem puffed out at this.

“…And I do too. You know that. But. Dangerous. Come on. Temptation Island much?”

“He wanted to make sure I would be able to find you-even if you had a shield around you, you know without involving... anyone else.”

“But...”

Clem quickly continued. “He had something for you, he wanted to make things easier, oh heck lets’ just cut to the train wreck o.k.?”

Buffy nodded. Her breath was getting little shallow and maybe, maybe vertigo...she held on to the side of the table and watched Clem open the sack.

“First of all, here is all your hair, whatcha call it, samples back.” He slid a small box to Buffy. It was a small match box very light, presumably empty save for three hairs inside. Matches. Fire. Cigarettes. Spike.

She put it in her blouse breast pocket.

“O.k. there’s a couple of things here...let me get organized...oh yeah”

Buffy heard a zipper being pulled and watched Clem draw three envelopes and placed them in a pile. Then a wooden box, fine plain wood topped with a high polish. Clem picked up the top envelope and placed it on the box and with trembling fingers, slid in within range of Buffy.

“Just in case, you know, that is, he always knew you were a little short-“

“I’m 5’2” of course I’m a little short.”

“Ha ha.”

Buffy opened the envelope and puzzled at the small stack of bills. Money. She riffled through them, ten, twenties, fifties, hundreds.

“Just some ready money, pocket stuff. If you were short.”

“How much?”

“About forty-five hundred, I forget.”

Buffy fingered the cash, some old, some new, that meant it came from different places.

“He was saving it up.”

“Seems so. And the box?”

Clem shrugged.

Buffy took a breath, bracing herself somewhat and opened. Inside were small envelopes, each containing a piece of jewelry or gold coin.

“Where did he get this?”

“Where does Spike get anything? Creative thinking. But it’s clean if that’s what you want to know. There’s a couple of watches and rings that I saw him win playing poker.”

“Cheating?” Buffy asked automatically.

Clem shrugged, if you call hearing heartbeats accelerate and watching blood pressure levels, cheating...” Clem’s voice trailed off and then continued. “It depends on your point of view.”

She fingered the treasure, some were common, but some had the ring of authentic and real value. Years of exposure to her Mothers gallery had given her an eye for quality.

Clem was talking again.

“He always felt money, you know, the paper stuff wasn’t enough. Capital, that’s what’s needed if you had to pick up and run-old school thinking maybe.

Buffy blinked.

“He checked everything over carefully. It’s all basic gold or whatever. Nothing too exotic or valuable (ie: not stolen)

“Clem I can’t”

She knew Spike had meant well, but even ensouled Spike’s parameters of right and wrong were, well, calling it “elastic” would be generous.

“I don’t think...”

“There is something else, well, a couple of something’s.” Clem didn’t want to hear her say ‘no’. Somehow, as Spike’s envoy, he could feel something of what Spike had felt in putting this together for his slayer.

Clem pulled a brown paper bag from his sack and slid it to Buffy; he then took a manila envelope and placed it on top.

She picked up the bag and felt the heft of a long rectangular shape it felt like...

“A book?”

Buffy pulled it out of the bag and looked at a hardback novel. The cover was a solid navy blue with a red pinstripe running around it. It was still vacuformed in plastic.

“Spike left me a little light reading?”

Clem pointed at the manila envelope. “The first royalty and all subsequent payments will be deposited into this account. All the rights, everything is in your name. He only meant that cash for you if you needed something fast. As for the jewelry take it or not, it’s up to you, but if you want my advice, keep em, it will eat no bread.”

“He wrote this? Spike wrote this?

“There is a second book, oh no, sorry...novel. Novel, who would’ve guessed Spike was a book snob? Anyway there is another one. That he dictated, guess he didn’t have time to…ah write it out…I had it transcribed, anyway the publishing company is gonna release it next year, something about timing, something like that.”

“When did he have time to write?”

“Well seems this one, this one here, he had been working on a year and half ago-it was hidden at the crypt. He hated seeing you at that fast food place-personally, I think they have great hats, but he-“

“Clem?”

--“Oh yeah…he said it didn’t take much to finish it up-the soul thing made it angtsy, gave a little extra boost to the dash and slash.

Buffy slowly shook her head turning the volume over in her hands. She saw her fingers tearing the plastic. It felt almost profane ripping it away, stripping down to Spike’s final secret mind.

“Have you read it?”

“No...ah…no…I haven’t..” Clem’s voice broke and Buffy glanced up to see him look away trying for stoic but not stacking up. She forgot sometimes that she was not completely alone in her grief. She opened the door to the book and read the title.

“A Body of Land”

Body of Land…a several layered pun hinting at complexity and heartbreak. Hey, she knew her Haiku. She read the dedication.

BuffyalwaysBuffy

It was too much I can’t, I can’t, and instead she asked:

“What is it about?”

“Some kind of historical novel set around the siege of Leningrad and into Stalin’s first purge. Centered around these women snipers. I remember him saying years ago that if anybody ever told any small sliver of what happened back then--society structure gone, cannibalism, you name it and still these humans at their worst, still were able to hang on to their city, stubborn probably-anyway, that would be a bloody book that would sell itself. ‘Bloody’ in all caps being the selling point. The publisher was impressed by its authenticity. He thought it was written by a Soviet ex patriot, hence the pen name-did you know Spike could speak Russian? Rushin’ maybe, Russian--double ‘huh’?”

Greata barked and opened a cabinet door and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She held it up to her comrades.

“In honor of the day--nostrovia! I think it’s time we ‘spiked’ the lemonade.”

They all laughed. Greata poured, approximated a couple of shots into Clem’s glass. She poured one shot into her own and a cap size of liquor into Buffy’s glass. Buffy looked into her glass and pouted. Greata looked away and explained.

“You’ve been in the sun all morning and no vodka for you...”

Buffy shrugged and made her ice swim against each other all vying for close proximity to the dribble of alcohol in the mix.

Clem raised his glass: “Spiked lemon aide!”

Greata and Buffy heartily agreed. They drank, they ‘ahhed’!

“I can’t take this you know.”

Clem put his glass down so he could use both hands to gesture emphatically at the book lying on the table.

“That never would have happened without you. You gave him a safe place to stay, to recuperate. He never would have survived out there, in the world or at the crypt. He wouldn’t have been able to defend himself. And he knew you wanted, that you would need to feel independent...and...” Clem shrugged. ”He considered you his silent partner...”

“Not so silent partner...I’m not gonna take it, it’s too much-“

Clem slid the last envelope into Buffy’s hands.

Without comment she picked it up and opened it, pulled out a single piece of paper and in Spike’s left-handed script she read this:

And then below, he had drawn a small heart with a smiley face inside.

The shocking incongruity was itself his autobiography. In approximately 10 seconds and with his naked heart he had written a love sonnet of epic proportions.

Screw Shakespeare. Screw them all. Who said William was a bloody awful poet?

She felt a pain in her chest. And batted her breast bone none too lightly and tried to cough it out.

“Huh, that’s funny…I think I got something stuck...”

She rubbed her chest and coughed until her breath hitched and a heartbreaking sob cracked the air. Did that come from me? And then another and another and oh my god--she reached out, her sobs cracking, trying to break her back, her heart, her body shaking. Wordless guttural gasps for air. Once begun there was no end.

Clem and Greata were there, Greata rubbing her back and Clem kneeling at her feet, his arms framed loosely about her...Her dry sobbing finally broke through to tears and she collapsed in Clem’s arms...

“Oh God...oh god...” her voice hitched, “what am I going to do Clem? It’s too much...”

The words broke apart from each other and fell down around her.

Day 32 Afternoon

Her eyes snap open.

Spike breathing.

Buffy is wide awake.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Day 32

Late afternoon

Giles was the first to arrive back home. And it was home, he thought. It was good to have everyone in the countryside, to be close to the earth. The deepest best healing to be had is enhanced by close proximity to the ground that grows food and the sun that encourages it to do so.

Greata was a godsend. In a long life that had seen much heartbreak, great good luck but few true blessings in hard times. Rupert Giles was grateful.

It had been a good day. The local library was absurdly small but still proud in its eclectic collection of master writers. He had expected to find nothing in the way of the occult and indeed he had not, but still. Still it was fine just to sit among the astounding variations of the use of English text. The Empire was alive indeed. It was fine to sit inside with fellow worshippers on a sunny summer afternoon. He had been updating his journal and had progressed significantly to almost present day entries. But there were still gaps, canyons really, to be filled only with the information Buffy could supply. They would need to sit down and talk soon but for now, as always, he veered away from thoughts of Spike history and preferred to control and categorize the facts as: ‘observations from Buffy.’ It might not necessarily be empirically true but it felt safer, somehow if he could still categorize the vampire’s anomalies as ‘subjective’ observations.

Spike. The puzzle of Spike. Ordinarily contradictions inspired Rupert to the best use of his problem solving capacity; he should have relished tackling the incongruity. But, somehow, somewhere, some deep sense of his own psychological self preservation had kept him from delving too far, too deep, yet. In his heart he had admitted, he was afraid of what he might find. Paradigms challenged. Challenged and broken? It was possible.

If only there was a prophecy. He sighed. As if a prophecy would be able to legitimize and make friends with chaos. That was Spike. But he doubted if there was anything as neat and tidy as a prophecy to explain away Spike. A loose cannon from the get to go. Paradigms lost. Paradigms lost indeed.

Given the train his thoughts were on, that and the decade’s long experience of living perpetually with the reality of living and undead nonsequiturs. He should not have been surprised to see a demon sitting with Greata on her front porch sipping cool drinks.

But he was. Rattled. He was rattled indeed. The front porch was sheltered by a large oak and so was not easily seen from the road. But as the drive ran up the side of the house to the rear, he got a good look. Quite.

He recognized Clem or course and smiled grimly at his knee jerk and rather prosaic American reaction, that is--the poem of reaching for your shotgun to protect your daughter from undesirable suitors. Not Clem, of course. But Spike. It was his automatic reaction to seeing anything or anyone having anything to do…with Spike.

Giles smiled at the thought of himself in overalls sitting on a rocking chair with a shotgun laid across his knee and had to smile. He was absolutely obliged to consider himself completely absurd. Spike was gone, after all.

By the time Giles got out of his rented car and walked across the lawn to the front of the house he was British again. All hail ‘courtesy’ the great savior, the greatest of social graces; he tapped this resource and greeted Clem.

“Clement.” Giles inclined his head.

As Giles came to the edge of the front porch Clem rose in greeting. His usual jovial and good spirited nature dampened now and sober as he looked down at the ripper in Rupert.

Clem nodded polite but cautious. Giles nodded back.

“Clem... you can call me Clem?” His sad smiling eyes phrased it almost as a question.

“Ah yes...Clem...what brings you out?” Giles let his voice die down as Clem looked up towards the top of the house. Greata supplied the answer for the unasked question.

“Buffy’s taking a nap. Been out in the sun all morning, got a little wrung out. She’ll be up soon I expect. Would you like a glass of lemonade Rupert?”

“Oh. Thank you. That would be fine, but I’ll get it, I’ll help myself.”

“No, no I’ll get it. I’ll bring the pitcher out for refills. So sit down, sit down everybody. The afternoon in summer is for sitting.”

Greata rose and went inside, door creaking open and closed. She paused in the dining room and the end of the stairs; she listened and was rewarded with the sound of movement on the second floor. Good. Buffy was up. She went into the kitchen humming a little and sing-songing these words:

“Ooohh boy, things are going to get verrry interesting. Who need the soaps anymore?”

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Buffy had splashed cool water on her face, her eyes, to reduce the puffy Buffy. But. Red was red. And she didn’t feel like hiding up here for the rest of the day and evening besides she didn’t want Clem leaving. She wanted him to stay. (Would it offend him to sleep in the barn?)

She heard Giles and Clem talking on the front porch. Giles had his high British on, using the super accent, the verrry Maggie Smith he used when trying to control untidy situations. Clem’s voice was a little defensive and stubborn.

“No, no, you can’t relay a message, there is still something else she’s gotta know about-“

Buffy jumped into the pool. (Everybody into the pool!)

“O.K.” She said opening the screen door and coming outside.

“I’ll take the bait, what ya got Clem?”

Clem’s obvious and sincere pleasure at seeing her almost undid her control. To cover, she sat down on the loveseat glider at the end of the porch so she was in a position to watch everyone.

“O.K. I’m sitting down, shoot.”

“Uh...I don’t know where to begin...”

“The beginning?” Giles suggested.

“No, that’s too far back-“

“The end?” More Brit less wit.

“Yeah I’ll start at the end.” Clem took a deep breath.

“Illyana-alaya is going to soul sing Spike.”

Beat.

“Illy-you-hoo huh?” Buffy asked.

“Illyana-alaya” Giles said softly, his eyes turned inward and upward to the vast personal filing cabinet accessing his almost total recall.

“Illyana-alaya...guardian, yes? Guardian of her race.” Then Giles addressed Buffy. “She is the closest Earth has to what mythology describes as elf or elfin. Extinct now...or…” And now Giles peered at Clem. “Assumedly...”

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated...”

Clem hee-hawed and then sputtered to a stop.

“Uh...sorry, sorry, It’s just kind of neat how she pulled that one over on everyone...I mean, I didn’t know she was still alive or anything, I was just contacted recently...that is, when she saw me coming here to see Buffy.”

“Uh Giles you’re British, can you talk to me in English and tell me what this means...”

“I don’t believe I quite know. There had always been a limited number of Elfin, and so records of customs and traditions are scant at best. Clem may know more than I, but as you start relaying what you do know, I believe more will come back to me...”

Buffy shook her head as if to clear it, “Well tell me what this means, what is this thing she’s gonna do?”

Clem puffed his chest out a bit and began.

“Illyana-alaya will soul sing Spike. She’s huge, a real world master, she can look into his life at everything he is and sing it...it’s a kind of eulogy thing they do.” Clem spoke clearly to make sure Buffy understood.

“It is an honor.”

“It is an honor...” Giles spoke quietly; having canvassed his catalogue of information he was now back in the present. Giles continued.

“One of the Elfin gifts was that of empathy-to actually feel the joy and sorrow of another being...which is why, of course, living on this planet became so difficult for them.”

Clem picked up when Giles paused.

“So she feels and sings for the dead, who they were and their effect on the world. It’s not always pleasant, you know, parts can be tough to listen to but it’s supposed to be amazing...”

Buffed considered. “So this elf person is going to sing for Spike...”

“Why? I mean...why Spike?” Giles thought it might be tactless but someone had to ask.

Buffy and Clem looked at Giles in tandem, almost playing in concert.

Giles slowed down and turned his gaze inward as he considered how to proceed. Maybe he was the one with something to learn.

“I ask, because, I would genuinely like to know...”

Buffy relaxed, almost visibly. Good. Her days of being a Spike apologist were way over. Buffy looked at Clem with a question mark. Clem shrugged a little as he answered.

“You know Giles might know more about this than me, Spike mentioned something once, but you know him, I thought he was bragging you know...I’ve met the queen yadda, yadda and he was drunk or he might not have mentioned it at all cause ‘shush it’s a secret,’ you know how he talked...cept...most of the stuff he bragged about always turned out to be true...huh. Anyway, all’s he told me was that she owed him one, big time. Like a favor or something. And then I was contacted by one of her children before I set out to come here. She wanted to let you know, wanted to come and pay her respects, but because she’s been in hiding, she’s had to be extra careful, wanted to check the water first. What with all the slayers around and...and...and your connection with that other one... you know, the other vampire...”

“Angel.” Giles breathed. “Of course...” Giles ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his brow. “Of course...”

“Uh guys...I’m still at ‘double duh’”. Buffy was getting a little snap hap.

“Buffy when I did that extensive research on Angel back...when…” He stopped at the thought of Jenny and then continued. “Part of his profile was to torture the pure of heart, the saints of this world...”

“Yes I remember--Drusilla was on her way to becoming a nun…”

“Yes, his cruelty consisted of cutting down those closest to love, to the light, if you will, also to exterminate, xenocide was his...hobby if you will. Species extermination. He considered it an art form--made Hitler look like a bloody upstart.”

“Oh my god...” Buffy moaned softly

“Yes...quite, quite...so it would appear Illyana-alaya is hiding from Angel. Yes?”

“And...and Spike?...”

“Well, this is deductive reasoning mind you, but if Angel was exterminating species, and the whole world thought the Elfin to become extinct sometime in the late 19^{th century and an Elfin matriarch owes Spike a boon-“}

“Man, he would have done anything to put that guy’s nose out of joint…“ Interjected Clem.

“Yes exactly. What his motives were, we may never know, but clearly by the Elfin offering to honor him, I would suspect he interceded on their behalf and therefore prevented total annihilation.”

“Spike...” Buffy spoke softly.

“Yes...” Giles watched her and became quiet, thoughtful. He spoke carefully.

“I would of course, love to hear the whole story...”

Buffy looked at him and then at Clem.

“Of course she should come here. She’s gotta come, she’ll be safe, let her know she’ll be safe. Angel is three hours away in L.A. He’s not coming here is he?”

“I haven’t heard anything...” Giles was rubbing his forehead again.

“When is she coming?”

“Today. Before sunset. Dusk.” Clem was smiling.

“Cutting it a little short, aren’t cha’ busty boy?”

“Security reasons...they didn’t want too many people to know they were coming...”

“We have to have a party!” This was from Greata, who had quietly rejoined the group and was refilling glasses.

“Whooo! Are you the original surfer girl or what?” Clem wondered aloud.

Greata sang Beach Boy ode to car #409: “Nothing can stop my, nothing can stop my 409....409....Nothing can stop my, nothing can stop-“

“Stop!” said Giles

“Stop!” said Buffy

“Stop. No boy bands on a Spike day.”

Fair enough. They all smiled at each other and said nothing.

Such self control.

*

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