Chapter Twenty-Seven

Giles woke early on the morning of ‘their’ departure, mainly because he was finding it completely impossible, and ultimately futile, to sleep, under the circumstances. As it wasn’t another ‘ungodly hour’ - although Buffy would most certainly have disagreed - he decided to call Vivianne one more time. He’d forgotten, with all the stress over helping Buffy, to ask if the witch was able to help Willow.

Dialling the familiar number - and grateful he didn’t have to add the international code first - he waited for her to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Vivianne. Me, again.”

“Oh, Rupert. What is it? No problems, I hope?”

“No. Everything’s fine. Just… something I forgot to ask you about before.”

She sighed heavily. “Go ahead.”

“Right,” he began. “Well, as you know, Willow’s purging was the indirect cause of Buffy’s predicament… However, it transpires that she purged a lot more than we ever anticipated. The Dark Magic latched onto her own inner power… It just ripped it out of her, Vivianne…” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Is there anything you can do?”

She thought about it very hard for several seconds, but came up with nothing. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

Trying to hide his disappointment, he said, “All right. It was worth a try. Thank you, anyway.”

“Sorry again. I wish I could help, but some things are beyond the realms of mortal power.”

“Yes… I realise that. You tried…”

She decided to change the subject, as she knew there was obviously something else bothering him. “So… is Buffy going home today?”

“Yes.”

“And have you told her yet…?”

“I… no…”

“Rupert!”

“I know, I know… It’s a very delicate situation.” Realising that wasn’t going to work as an excuse, he added, “I’ll tell her today. I’ll have to. At the airport. Then, she’ll have less time to dwell on it… or convince me to go with her.”

“Why are you staying here? It’s obvious you care for her… for all of them.”

“I do,” he clarified. “But it’s for their own good. They need to learn to live without me supporting them through all their troubles.”

“I suppose…” With a sigh, he added, “Just try to break it to her gently, all right? She might seem strong, but I can tell she’s fragile inside. Make sure you can give her plenty of reasons in your defence, too.”

“I can. It may not seem like it, but I’ve thought this through.”

“Good,” she said. “I wish you both luck.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Rupert.” More humorously, she added, “And don’t let her scare you…”

“I won’t. Goodbye.”
br>

Heathrow Airport, several hours later…

They were at the airport’s check-in, and Buffy was still blissfully unaware of the bombshell her companion was going to drop. His attempts to try and talk to her had failed miserably. She was chattering non-stop, and he was unable to get a word in edgeways. At least she was happy, though. That would make it slightly less impossible, if not easy.

“Ugh,” she announced. “I so cannot wait to be home. I mean, no offence or anything, England’s great, but if I have to drink any more of that crap you call coffee, I think I’ll go insane. Beginning to see the deal with you and tea, Giles, seriously. And you know? The whole upcoming conversation with Spike about you-know-what? So not worried any more. In fact, I may not even bother with it. Who needs all that extra hurt from the past, anyway? This is about the future. I just wanna get back, and tell him I love him, and be with him. Forget all the hassle.” Giles smiled. If he’d had any earlier doubts about her relationship with the vampire, she was allaying them by the minute. It may not have started perfectly, but she was clearly adamant to make it so. “Did you know he could hug?” she continued. “It’s true. I never realised before, ‘til the night Xander nearly killed him. Well, okay, I’ve never actually taken the time to hug him, but anyway, he’s really quite cuddly. In fact, screw slaying. I’m just gonna cuddle with Spike for the rest of my life-“

“Buffy…”

“Dawn can slay. I’m hereby promoting her.”

“Buffy,” he tried again, louder. She halted in her babbling and looked at him. He indicated the woman at the desk, who was waiting patiently, and slightly amusedly, to check her ticket and weigh her baggage.

“Oh. Sorry…” she muttered, sheepishly. She hoisted her case onto the weighing machine with ease; the desk clerk looked incredibly surprised by the weight of it, but said nothing, sending it through. She checked Buffy’s ticket, and directed her towards the passenger lounge, telling her to listen for announcements.

Together, Giles and Buffy headed for the lounge. It was then that she realised something that seemed to be just a little amiss…

“Uh, Giles? I know you travel light, but… isn’t this taking it just slightly too far?” She indicated his complete lack of luggage, and, right before he could say anything, added, “And why didn’t she check your ticket?”

Now or never, he thought. “Buffy, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Well, it better end with the words ‘luggage is being sent later’…” she said, pointedly, one eyebrow raised to suggest that he wouldn’t like the consequences if it didn’t.

He sighed, and ushered her towards one of the quieter seating areas, trying to keep her calm. Once they were seated, and when it was quite clear that her expectant, irritated expression wasn’t going to go away, he explained, “I’m not going back to Sunnydale with you…”

She gave a bitter laugh, devoid of any humour whatsoever. “I’m sorry, I must have heard that wrong. It sounded like you said you’re not going back with me.”

He cringed. He’d been expecting this, but he’d been half-hoping she’d make it easy. “Will you at least let me explain?” he implored.

“What’s to explain?” she asked. “You’re deserting me. That’s all I need to know.” With that, she got up from her seat, and stormed off; he gave chase, and managed to catch hold of her arm to stop her. She wrenched free of his grip easily, and spun to face him, giving him a stony, hurt glare. “God, just when I thought everything was going to be fine, and you-“

“Buffy, please…” he begged. “Don’t make this any more difficult.”

That was the last straw; the final shred of her tenuous self-control fell apart. “Don’t make it any more difficult?! As if you’re making it so easy! Were you gonna tell me at all, or were you just gonna wait ‘til I got on the plane and realised you weren’t there?”

“I couldn’t tell you sooner. You’d only have managed to convince me to go with you.”

“And that’d be so terrible?”

He shook his head, defeated. Clearly, she wasn’t going to make it any easier on him. “Look, just… just give this” - he fished in his pocket for the letter, which he’d finally succeeded in writing - “to the others. It explains everything. When you’re less angry, call me, and we can… I’ll…” He gave up. “I’m going…”

He handed her the letter, then turned and began to walk away. Buffy stared at the envelope blindly for a few moments, then at his retreating back. She dropped her head, tears stinging her eyes, then she started to run after him. “Giles!”

He stopped, relieved beyond measure, and turned just as she skidded to a halt in front of him. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes as they regarded each other; suddenly, neither of them knew what to say. All of Giles’ carefully planned explanations had vanished from his brain, seeming mediocre and pointless when he was confronted with his Slayer so upset. And Buffy was speechless now, her anger more or less spent and ultimately futile. She was still battling against tears, but it didn’t last long; the moment they fell, Giles enveloped her in his arms. This was the one thing he’d hoped wouldn’t happen; the one thing he was unable to fight. When she’d stopped sobbing enough to listen, he released her and manoeuvred her back to the seating area.

“Now,” he said. “Can I explain?” She nodded, wiping her eyes, annoyed that she’d let her guard down around him. He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket while he spoke. “This is… difficult, Buffy. It’s been a terrible decision to have to come to, and it’s taken me a long time to convince myself that it is the right thing to do. I know it seems like I’m deserting you again - I don’t blame you in the slightest for thinking that - but, believe me, it’s for the best. You all need to learn to live without me there to…” He trailed off, trying to think how to word it without it sounding patronising.

“Bale our asses out of trouble?” she offered.

He smiled at her colourful use of language. “Precisely. You’re all mature, sensible adults; Dawn is growing up fast, and she has all of you to help her. You have to learn how to get on with your lives.”

“I know,” she admitted, sniffing. “But it’s just…” She sighed. This conversation was beginning to sound incredibly familiar, and reminded her of the one she’d had with Spike only a few days ago in the basement. “Look, everyone I’ve ever loved has left me… even Spike. And I really thought I’d got you back for good this time, Giles. It’s not just me. Dawn needs a father… dammit, so do I…”

He couldn’t help but feel proud of that. “Buffy… I’ve been around for the most important events of your life. As for Dawn… much as I’m loath to admit it, she has Spike… and, God-forbid, Xander. Those two are enough to keep anyone out of trouble.” That raised a smile. “I’ll be a telephone call away.”

She seemed to be far more accepting of the situation now he’d had time to explain, but one more thing was still bothering her about it. “Okay… I realise why you have to stay. Far be it for me to try and force you into coming h-“ She caught herself before she said ‘home’. Sunnydale wasn’t his real home, England was. She blinked, and tried again. “…coming… back with me. But why didn’t you even tell the others?”

He looked embarrassed. “Because… because I’ve said goodbye to them all twice this year… and I have yet to say goodbye to you. I-I didn’t want them involved this time.”

Buffy was touched by the admittance. “I guess I was a superbitch the last time, huh?”

“You had your reasons.”

Their conversation was then interrupted by an announcement for Buffy’s flight, requesting the first batch of seat numbers to board. She looked at her ticket and saw that she would probably be called for next. “Wow. I suppose this is it…”

“Yes.” He got up, and offered her a hand. After he helped her out of the chair, unnecessarily, they both stood there rather uncomfortably. Now that the time had come, he had no idea what he wanted to say. “I’ll… I’ll walk you to the gate.”

Side by side, they headed towards the boarding gate, in silence. Buffy looked at the dwindling queue of passengers waiting to have their tickets checked again, and suddenly froze where she stood. “I don’t wanna go…” she muttered, as the last passenger went through.

“You have to,” he said, futilely. Another announcement called for the second batch of passengers that included Buffy’s seat number. “You really have to…” He took hold of both of her hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be fine. And you won’t even have to explain to the others; I’ve done that already in the letter.”

“Yeah…” She took a deep breath, eyeing the slightly longer queue nervously, wondering if she had time to say everything she suddenly wanted to in the short time left. “Giles… God, I don’t know where to begin. Uh…”

He smiled, saving her by suggesting: “If there’s really so much, write it all down on the plane and send it to me when you’re back. Or you could summarise…”

“I’ll do both,” she said. “Right. Summarise…” She thought about it. “Okay. Giles, I’m sorry. For everything this past year, and probably for everything before, too. For… for the whole back-from-the-dead freak-out thing, for putting on you all the time… for Spike…”

“Don’t worry about the last one. I can see now that it’s not nearly as hideous as I’d have thought.”

She smiled. “I’ll… take that as a compliment. And that’s the other thing. Thank you. For… being around… and for being you.”

“Any more?”

She looked at the queue again - there were very few passengers left and if she didn’t go soon, they’d be considering her a no-show. “Yes…” She hesitated, considering how it might be received. “I… I want you to know that I love you, Giles. I don’t say that enough, to anyone, and especially not to you, but… I do.”

He smiled. “I know.” Silence fell. Then: “You have to go.” “I guess…” There was an awkward pause, and then she flung her arms around his neck, practically suffocating him as usual, although he didn’t complain. He hugged her back comfortably, and placed a kiss on the top of her head before he let her go, and then, before his brain had even registered what was happening, Buffy had kissed him.

It was nothing, really. A second later, he was looking down at her as she blushed furiously, turning an interesting shade of crimson. It had been an incredibly brief and chaste kiss, and she’d pulled away just as suddenly, as sanity kicked in. Her expression of complete mortification wasn’t shifting. He stroked her cheek, smiling to let her know that he didn’t mind, and she smiled back, relieved. “Sorry,” she said. “Spur of the moment thing…”

“Yes…” The queue at the gate had dwindled to nothing. “And now you need to go…”

She nodded, determinedly, and looked towards the gate once more with much less dread in her expression. Looking back to him again, she said “And you are coming to Sunnydale for Christmas and New Year and my birthday. No arguments.” She raised an eyebrow to suggest that disagreeing wasn’t an option.

Giles laughed, but seemed to agree nonetheless. “Of course…” They shared a mutual smile, and he finally said, “Goodbye, Buffy. Although not forever this time.”

“Goodbye, Giles.”

With that, she picked up her rucksack, tucked the letter to the Scoobies into her own pocket, and headed towards the departure gate with her head held high. Giles watched as they x-rayed her bag, checked her ticket, and waved her through; at the door, she stopped to look back, and waved, waiting for him to wave back before finally boarding the plane.

Approximately half an hour later, he was sitting by one of the airport’s large viewing windows, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee (no matter what Buffy thought, it wasn’t going to stop him drinking it) as he watched her flight take off. Now, he was a lot more certain that he’d made the right decision by staying in England. Buffy understood his reasoning, and he could only hope that her friends would, too. In retrospect, he’d left them to their own devices right when things were looking up, and eventually, no matter how they’d probably argue to the contrary, they wouldn’t need him anyway.

Summers residence

“Okay, up a little… stop! Down… No, that’s too far, Xander. Honestly, if you want something doing…”

Anya was, for some reason nobody could work out, in charge of the final preparations for the surprise party, having come back from her apartment. She was currently ordering around Xander and Dawn, and thoroughly enjoying it. They were and leattempting to hang the roughly painted banner up on the wall, with Xander on one chair, and Dawn on another. Willow had wisely left them to it, and was baking something in the kitchen that was apparently going to be just as much of a surprise as the party would be. Spike hadn’t been seen for hours, only to occasionally emerge from the basement in search of blood from the fridge.

The two banner-hangers’ arms were now beginning to ache from the constant repositioning, and Anya still wasn’t satisfied with it. Xander sighed. “Come on, Anya. It’s not like it’s going to stay up…”

“That’s no excuse for a bad job,” she explained. “Dawn, your end is drooping.”

The brunette sighed heavily. “That’s probably because I can’t feel my shoulder.” At this point, the phone rang. “I’ll get it!” she shouted, dropping her end of the banner and leaping from the chair to answer it. Anya yelled something in protest that fell on deaf ears, and ran to save the material from the evils of the carpet.

Dawn practically fell on the phone as she picked up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Dawn,” came the muffled voice on the other end of the line.”

“Buffy!” she said, just loudly enough that everyone would hear. The two exchanged the usual pleasantries while the rest of the Scoobies - including Spike, after Willow had alerted him - came to hover nearby. “How was England? And how’s Giles?”

“England was… cold,” she said. “Kinda pretty. And tiny.” Dawn giggled. “And Giles is… is fine…” Changing the subject, she added, “What about you guys? All still alive?”

“Pretty much…” Seeing that everyone was getting impatient, she asked, “So where are you now?”

“At the airport. Just calling to check in. Be home in about an hour, okay?”

“Kay, Buff. See you in an hour.”

She put the phone down and turned to the others. “We’ve got an hour to get this party ready.”

Willow shrugged. “I think we can manage that. Of course, it’d be a lot faster if I…” She trailed off when she noticed her friends giving her the “don’t-even-think-about-it” expression. “Kidding…”

“Okay,” said Xander, “so what’s left?”

Willow did a mental checklist. “Uh… just gotta wait for my surprise to finish cooking, get that banner up, and blow up the balloons.”

Spike put his hand up. “I can do that.” Off the minor quizzical looks he received, he explained, “Vampire, remember? Can’t run out of breath.”

“Great. Thanks, Spike,” said Willow. “The balloons’re in the bag on the kitchen table.” He nodded in understanding and headed for the kitchen. “Can anyone think of anything else?” Everyone thought about it, and simultaneously shook their heads. “Right. Let’s get finished, then.”

The house became a bustle of frantic activity as they attempted to finish preparing the lounge. Anya, authoritative as ever, continued to order Xander and Dawn around in an effort to get the banner straight, before finally conceding defeat and taking over herself. Spike set about inflating the balloons, realising he wasn’t sure how many to blow up and then deciding it probably didn’t matter and, after all, a hundred couldn’t be that many, could it? Willow’s mysterious foodstuff finally finished baking and she put it on the dining room table, and put a slight protection spell on it while she was at it, so nobody would sneak a peak (but not before muttering a slight apology heavenwards.)

Forty-five minutes later, they’d finally finished, and crashed out in the lounge, exhausted. All that was left to do now was wait for Buffy and Giles to arrive so they could spring the surprise on them

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The taxi Buffy had hired was nearing home at last, and relief coursed through her at finally being back on familiar ground, in surroundings she recognised. England was all very well, but she didn’t like being constantly disorientated and semi-lost whenever she looked around her. It made her nervous; a Slayer was supposed to know her territory, and, although she’d had no need to be the Slayer in England, she was still wary that she didn’t know all the vamp hotspots and back streets as well as she did in Sunnydale.

She’d spent the journey fairly relaxed, and had resisted the urge to read the Scoobies’ letter on the plane. She had very little to worry about, but was also slightly apprehensive as to how her friends would take the news of Giles’ absence. She’d been deliberately cryptic on the telephone to Dawn, who obviously didn’t suspect a thing, thus confirming her suspicions that he hadn’t told them he wasn’t coming back.

Contrary to what she’d been rambling about at the airport, she knew she had to talk to Spike, tempting though it was not to bother. They needed to get all the apologies, forgiveness, and explanations out of the way, before figuring out what to do next. After the summer they’d spent, stuck in their constant cycle of hurt (she figured it certainly didn’t constitute a healthy relationship), Buffy wasn’t entirely sure if they could make it work.

Nevertheless, she was more than willing to try, and was pretty sure that Spike was, too. He’d changed a lot since returning from Africa, gaining a soul notwithstanding; most of his original cockiness had gone, and even when he was acting like his old self, it seemed a little forced. Before he’d left, she’d been too afraid to let herself love him. He was a vampire - one excuse that wouldn’t ever fly, after Angel. He was evil - another one that wouldn’t fly, because, no matter what she kept telling herself, he’d proven he wasn’t more times than she could count. Above all of this, he wasn’t the good, normal guy she’d been clamouring for her entire life… but sooner or later she had to accept that it wasn’t going to happen that way. She was a Slayer, and no amount of ‘normality’ would change who - and what - she was.

She smiled to herself. No, nothing would change who she was. And the wonderful thing was, Spike didn’t want to change her. They were both creatures of the night, Buffy by choice, and Spike by default. It was never going to be the perfect, ordinary relationship she’d always told herself she wanted, but lately, she’d actually started to realise that nothing was perfect, and living on the Hellmouth meant that nothing would ever be ordinary, either…

Back at the house, the Scoobies finally collapsed on the couch after their manic forty-five minutes of party-making. The banner was up, the food was all ready, the balloons were inflated and thrown liberally around the house (although this was probably an understatement, as they completely covered the floor), and they’d all designated themselves various hiding places. It was late afternoon by this point and the sun was just starting to set, and the lounge was dim without the lights on.

All of them were present except for Spike, who was skulking somewhat nervously by the basement door, still trying to decide whether or not to join in with the surprise. As he’d said before, he’d already surprised the Slayer enough lately to last a lifetime, and he didn’t really feel like partying, particularly. He’d much rather have Buffy all to himself when she got back, which wasn’t going to happen with all of her friends and her sister around the place. Hence, he’d just come to the decision to hide in the basement, and was just about to go back down there, one hand on the door handle, when Anya wandered into the kitchen to look for something she’d apparently forgotten.

“Spike? Where are you going?”

He cursed under his breath at the Scoobies’ general awful timing, and turned to face her. Excuses were never his strong suit, and he fumbled about with an explanation. “I, um… just going…”

“Are you hiding?”

“No!” he said, defensively. “Well… all right. Yeah.”

“Why?” Her tone was partly accusatory, and partly superior, as if Spike hiding was the least of her worries and she was only asking out of common courtesy.

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Now, if you don’t mind, you can just get whatever it is you came in here for, and I’ll go back to my hiding…”

Anya began rooting in a drawer, still addressing him. “I would’ve thought you’d be glad to join in the party. I mean, what part of “Buffy’s-coming-home” didn’t you understand?”

“If Buffy wants to see me, she will. Just not in the mood for a party, is all.”

“Suit yourself.” The vengeance demon clearly wasn’t in any mood to be arguing with him, so she just accepted this and started to head back to the lounge. Spike could tell, by this point, that something was still bothering her, and he knew it was probably a bad idea to ask, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Before I lock myself in the basement away from the Scooby festivities… is something wrong?”

“Nope.”

“Pull the other one, Anya. You’re not exactly in a party mood yourself.”

She was caught, and she knew it. She wasn’t entirely willing to have another heart-to-heart with Spike, but since the last one hadn’t been as mortifyingly embarrassing as she’d imagined, it couldn’t hurt to tell him. “It’s nothing. Just… vengeance demon PMS.”

“I… imagine that’s not pretty.”

“It’s like Slayer PMS to the power of ten,” she informed him. Spike took a step back, in case he accidentally managed to provoke her. “And… I’ve been thinking about that conversation we had the other night.”

“Ah…” He knew it had to be something to do with that. “Still having problems with the Whelp?”

“Not that you’d notice. Actually, we’re getting on just fine; everyone is. And I meant about the other part of the conversation… The, um, ‘us’ part.”

“The lack of ‘us’ part,” he corrected her, quickly.

“Whatever.” She sighed. “But we agreed to forget about it.”

“That, we did.” A pause. She didn’t say anything. “And…?” he prompted.

“I can’t.”

He almost made a crack about that, but her expression quite clearly indicated that if he tried it, he was dust, so he bit his tongue and attempted to be a voice of sympathy. “I see…”

“I mean… it doesn’t feel right to forget about it. It happened, and it was a mistake, but we got over it, so what are we forgetting?”

“The fact that we hurt the people we love?”

“We can’t expect them to forget it, too, Spike…” She was right, annoyingly. “Forgetting’ll make it easier, sure. But if I’ve learnt anything from my experiences with Xander, it’s that easier isn’t necessarily better.”

“I don’t know about that,” he pondered. “I’d go for a bit of ‘easier’ on occasion…”

“We all would, but that’s not the point.”

They stared each other down. “So what are you saying, then?” asked Spike. “That we made a horrible mistake and we should be proud of it?”

Anya sighed heavily. He wasn’t getting it. She chose not to think too hard about his wording - a ‘horrible mistake’ wasn’t exactly the nicest way of putting it, after all - and instead tried to explain her reasoning. “No, of course not. Only that we should accept that it was just that - a mistake - and not dwell on it. Or forget it like it never happened, either. I mean, come on… if it’d never happened, I bet you and Buffy would still be the problem couple of the year, and me and Xander would probably still be hating each other.”

Spike finally had to admit that she was right, much as he was loath to. Nevertheless, he wasn’t prepared to stay for the party, and Buffy would be arriving soon. He cast a glance outside - it was dark enough now for him to go out and not burst into flames - then looked back over at Anya, who was giving him an expectant, questioning look. “Fair enough,” he said. She seemed to accept this as an agreement; now that it was sorted and out of the way, Spike headed to the door.

“Whoa, where are you going?” she asked. “I thought you were only hiding, and now you’re running away?”

“I’m not running away,” he informed her. “I’m just… going for a walk. Buffy ‘n’ I have a lot to talk about later and I want to think some things through, if that’s all right with you?” She nodded, not wanting to argue with his tone of voice.

“Where’re you going? In case anyone asks…”

“I doubt anyone will, but…” He thought about it. “Look, I don’t know. I’m going… I’m going back to where this all began.” On this cryptic note, he got out before she could ask him any more questions, disappearing into the night. Anya thought about his answer for a few moments, before deciding it might mean more to Buffy anyway, and joining the others in the lounge.

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief as the cab pulled up in front of her house. The lights were all out, as she partially expected - they were probably out patrolling in her absence. Either that or they were all asleep. It didn’t matter, anyway; she was pretty sure that Spike would be waiting for her, no matter what, and, awful though it sounded, he was the only one she really wanted to see at that moment. She was dreading her friends’ reactions to the news about Giles.

She paid the driver and lugged her case out of the taxi and up to the front door. Unlocking it, and stepping inside, she didn’t bother with the lights. “Hello?”

There was no reply. Then, two seconds later, as soon as she’d shut the door, the lights came on, and she was ambushed on all sides by her friends and sister throwing streamers and yelling “Welcome home!!” at her. Somewhat taken aback, her smile was a delayed reaction, and she was so surprised she didn’t even think to look for Spike amongst them. Although, she really didn’t have time to, because she was immediately hugged by Dawn, who then dragged her further into the living room so she could see the decorations.

They’d eventually succeeded in getting the banner up (although not to Anya’s exacting standards) and it looked rather impressive. It was painted in various colours and had the words “Welcome home, Buffy and Giles!” scrawled across it; there was a Union Jack on one side, and the Stars and Stripes (with probably a few too little stars) on the other. The floor was a veritable sea of balloons courtesy of Spike’s inability to gauge how many was too many, and the dining room table was laid out with a variety of party foods. Willow’s surprise turned out to be another batch of her infamous redemption-cookies, made by hand without the aid of any magic whatsoever, and chock-full of chocolate-y goodness.

Buffy smiled, and gave each of her friends another hug each. “Thanks, you guys. I can’t believe you made all this effort.”

Dawn grinned. “No biggie, Buff. And look! We all stayed alive and everything!”

“So you did,” she agreed. “Lemme take my stuff upstairs and get changed and we can start the party.” They all nodded various affirmatives, and Buffy started towards the stairs. She got as far as putting a hand to her case when she stopped, realising something was missing from this situation. She turned again, to face her friends, and surveyed the room. Yes. Definitely something missing. But what was… oh.

“Guys? Where’s Spike?”

Apparently, the Scoobies had come to the same conclusion at the same time, and her question coincided exactly with Xander’s “Buffy? Where’s Giles?”

She’d almost forgotten. Leaving her case alone, she slowly returned to the room; her expression suggested that they should all sit down, which they did, apprehensively. She felt in her pocket for the letter he’d given her, and held onto it firmly, for support, as she spoke.

“Giles, uh… he… he isn’t with me.”

“No duh,” said Dawn, suddenly reverting to being twelve. “Where is he, then?”

“He stayed in England,” she said, quickly.

“What? Why?” That was Willow, fighting against her pouty-face and failing horribly. “Did the Watchers’ Council call him back?”

“No, nothing like that. Look, he gave me this.” She pulled the letter out of her pocket, and handed it to Xander. “It explains everything better than he probably could have told me, under the circumstances. All I know is that he thinks it’s time for us to move on without him, live our own lives. I agree with him. I didn’t want to lose him either, but it’s for the best.” She paused. They all stared at the, as yet, unopened envelope in Xander’s hands, curiously, almost fearful of the contents. “I… I think he’s probably put something in there for all of you. I didn’t read it.”

“He didn’t say goodbye…” muttered Anya, pitifully. Buffy’d had a feeling his absence would hit her hard.

“Yeah, I know. But… he did, to me, and that’s what he wanted. He hates saying goodbye; you know that. Especially to me… but he didn’t get the chance the last two times, and… I guess he didn’t want to involve you. He knew we’d try to make him stay if he told us. Hell, I did.”

Silence fell, and they continued to stare at the letter. Xander had apparently been assigned to read it out, but didn’t look particularly inclined to do so at that moment in time. Buffy stared at them a while, realising they still hadn’t answered her question. She gave them a few minutes to recover from her news before pressing with it again.

“So, um, where’s Spike?”

They looked at her, and shrugged. Nobody had seen him since he’d blown up the balloons, but couldn’t think exactly when that had been. Anya, however, shifted uncomfortably in her seat and tried to change the subject.

“Come on, Xander. Open it.”

Buffy interrupted. “No, Anya. You can open it once I know where Spike is. You know, don’t you?” It was pointless trying to deny it. The vengeance demon got up from her seat and indicated for Buffy to follow her into the kitchen, leaving the others to discuss the latest news about Giles. Once they were in there, Buffy folded her arms and put on her best ‘mom’ pose, that she often adopted with Dawn, and an expression that demanded an explanation. “Well?”

Anya shifted uncomfortably. Her comment to Spike about vengeance demon PMS was suddenly promising to be less true than she’d originally thought, when confronted with five-foot-two-inches of cranky Slayer. “I… I spoke to him a few minutes before you arrived.”

“Great. So where is he?”

“I have no idea. He wouldn’t tell me.” She sounded decidedly snippy. “I just know he didn’t want to talk to you while we were all here.”

Buffy sighed. That sounded like Spike, all right. And now she came to think about it, it probably would be impossible to have a serious conversation whilst there was the possibility of being constantly interrupted. Taking it out on Anya wasn’t particularly productive, and she was upset enough already from the news about Giles. “Sorry, Anya. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

She shook her head. “He did say something about going back to where it began. Whatever that means.”

The Slayer looked thoughtful. “I think I might have an idea… Thanks.” So saying, she headed towards the back door.

“Don’t you want to know what the letter says?”

“I imagine it’s just for you guys; he’s said all he wanted to me. If there’s a message, I’ll read it later. Right now, I have to find Spike.”

With that, she was gone. Anya sighed heavily and made her way back into the lounge, where Dawn, Xander and Willow were still staring solemnly at the unopened letter. Her curiosity was damn near killing her by this point, and she squeezed onto the couch next to them, and said. “Geez, Xander, it’s not a will, you know…”

“Yeah, I know…”

There was a long pause. Judging by the envelope, the letter seemed to be fairly lengthy, and addressed to nobody in particular, as there was no name on the front. Obviously, Giles had been unable to decide what to put there, or unwilling to single out any one person as addressee. Finally, Xander took a deep breath, and opened it…

On the streets of Sunnydale…

Buffy realised too late that she’d run out of the house unarmed, and if a vamp decided to jump her, she’d be essentially defenceless. She’d already lost enough time, though, and didn’t want to go back for her stake; that would just make her even later meeting up with Spike. If she ever found him. Sunnydale as a city was relatively small, but when someone wanted to hide, it proved very useful. There were too many abandoned places, and too many hidey-holes for the evil and slimy - but, as it was sat above the Hellmouth, that figured.

‘Back to where it all began,’, Anya had said. That could mean anything where Spike was concerned. If he was speaking metaphorically, there were any number of demon hotspots or maybe even churches where he could have gone, and it would take hours to search them all. Too theological, possibly. She instinctively looked up at the sky - that’s where everything began, after all, millions of years ago - but discounted it. She was thinking about it too hard, and doubted he’d be that cryptic. That was obscure even for Spike. So he must have meant literally, in which case… back to when what began? His life? Her life? Well, the former would be England, surely; she stifled a groan at that thought, not entirely ready to go back there just yet, or having to explain to Giles once she was. And if the latter, well… she couldn’t remember where she was born, exactly, and she was pretty sure Spike had no idea.

She stopped walking - it wasn’t helping - and sat down on the pavement to think properly. ‘Back to where it all began…’ Come on, Buffy. This is Spike. What the Hell could he possibly mean?

Considering their latest situation, Buffy started narrowing down the possibilities: soul, vampire, love. Okay. Soul. Well, surely that meant Africa? She’d put that idea to one side for the moment; moving on: vampire. Where had he been Sired? London. Damn. She was just going around in circles. One possibility left: love. It was all-encompassing. She started thinking it through logically. When had he fallen in love with her? And where would he have been? She supposed either the tree outside her room - but that was too obvious, and if he had been sitting in that tree all the time she was searching for him, she was going to kill him where he stood - or his crypt. The latter made a lot of sense - the site of their first non-spell-induced kiss, and many liaisons after that… but it also held bad memories, so maybe that wasn’t it after all. Which really gave her only one more logical option - wherever it was they’d met for the first time.

Her mind drew a blank at first. It had been so long ago; somewhat guiltily, she realised she could recall precisely where she’d first met Angel, but Spike…? Had it been Hallowe’en? In some back alley? No, surely not… the High School, maybe. That sounded more plausible. That had been their first fight, when he’d first introduced himself - in a way - and claimed to be her future demise. That was it. The old High School.

Determined, she got up again and set off dutifully in that direction, trying to remember the way. She was feeling immensely proud of herself for having figured it out, but it was just as quickly overcome by dread at the upcoming difficult conversation, and she had no idea how to begin, or even what to actually discuss. She supposed that would just make itself apparent as they talked.

As Buffy rounded a corner, something caught her eye: a streetlight reflecting off the metallic sign of the Bronze. She stopped in her tracks. The Bronze… wait a second… They hadn’t met at the High School at all; it had been at the Bronze, while she was embarrassing herself close-dancing with Xander. The memory made her blush, but only for a second, because then she remembered how the not-so-tall-or-dark stranger had come up to her on the dance floor. This had been where they’d first met. This was precisely what he was referring to; she could see it now. He was always talking about their dancing together, right from the beginning… and this was the site of their first dance.

She smiled to herself, smugly, but it soon dropped as she tried to find a way in. Reality hit with a thud. It was time to talk with Spike.

To be continued…

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The letter, as anticipated, was long, but partially only because of Giles’ large handwriting. None of them had ever really seen it before, and all four of them took a long time merely admiring it before Xander read it aloud. His script was slanting, slightly jumpy from having written the beginning on the plane and it being the tenth draft, and he was, of course, one of those people who made sure to dot all his ‘I’s and cross all his ‘T’s. The wording was formal, because that was how Giles was used to writing, but personal for each of the recipients in its own way.

“Okay. Shall I read it?” asked Xander. The three girls nodded encouragingly. He cleared his throat theatrically, skimmed through the pages to check how long it really was, and began.

“You all need to learn to live without me. I think you know that. I’m not always going to be around to help you when things get difficult - apocalypses, of course, being exceptional circumstances - and the sooner you get along without me, the better. I’m always just a telephone call away, as you know. Keep in touch, by all means; I’ll try and visit for your birthdays and Christmas - and Dawn’s prom, naturally - just so you know I’m not completely cutting myself off from you. I love you all, and I will miss you, but this is for the best.”

Xander noticed that both Dawn and Anya had started to tear up slightly, so he stopped. He was feeling emotional himself as it was, and took a breather to regain some control over his already wavering voice. Willow was staring at her hands, her face obscured by her hair as her head bowed, but she was probably close to tears as well. “Should I carry on?” he asked.

Dawn wiped her eyes, annoyed with herself. “Yes.” Anya confirmed this with a nod of her own, as did Willow. Xander put his free arm around Anya (mainly because she was on his left, at the end of the couch), and Willow leaned her head on his other shoulder, following the letter silently as he read it out. Dawn snuggled closer to Willow; together, they managed to take up only half of the couch as they huddled, and, with their combined strength, Xander continued.

“This letter is, collectively, an explanation, and a goodbye. I will, however, say a few words to each of you individually. As someone is doubtless reading this out to the group, I’ll try not to embarrass anyone. I’ve also resorted to pulling your names out of a hat to decide which order to go with, because if I go chronologically, alphabetically, or any other way, I’ll inadvertently upset someone. So. At random…”

He’d started a new page at this point, for neatness’ sake, and Xander paused again. “Are we ready?”

“Uh-huh.” That was Willow; Anya and Dawn quickly nodded their affirmation. Xander placed the read pages to the back, and cleared his throat again.

“Dawn, you’re first.”

“Wow. That makes a change,” she said, smiling. Her expression turned serious again as she added, “Go on…”

“Right…

“Always remember, no matter what happens, your sister loves you, and so do I. Should you ever need to call me, kindly remember that there’s at least six hours time difference, and even stuffy British ex-Watchers need their beauty sleep on occasion.”

Dawn was sniffling by this point, but managed to laugh at his dry humour nonetheless. Xander realised Giles had thoughtfully put each individual letter on a separate page, and handed Dawn hers. She grabbed it, and re-read it a few times while Xander went through the others.

“Whether you realised this or not, I want you to know that I was never angry with you over what happened over the summer. You got addicted, but you managed to get yourself off magic; what happened at the Magic Box wasn’t entirely your fault, either. Grief makes people do insane things. Which brings me nicely onto my next admittance. I’ve forgiven you - all of you, in fact - for the decision to bring Buffy back. Even though we know where she was, now, I don’t think any of us could have carried on much longer without her. She may still be hurting, but… well, perhaps she and Spike can make the pain go away, together. I’m going off on rather a tangent. Getting back to you, Willow - yes, I forgive you, and I’m glad you’ve realised that magic isn’t the only way to get things done. You resisted the no doubt overwhelming urge to repeat the spell on Tara, and I’m proud of you for that. If your powers return, I’m certain you’ll use them wisely.”

Willow, teary-eyed, was handed her letter. She was glad she’d been forgiven, but felt awful at the same time. Giles didn’t know she’d tried to resurrect Tara, right after she’d died, and she’d been too scared to tell him so after the way he’d reacted to their bringing Buffy back. She needed to call him, as it was, to tell him the good news about her powers - although it would take some explaining, of course - so maybe, just maybe, she’d get around to telling him that part of the story, too.

Xander looked at the following page. “Next one’s for Spike. Better wait til he’s back.”

Anya, however, was insatiably curious. “C’mon, Xander. Just skim it…”

He sighed, but complied anyway. “Uh… know you love Buffy, yada yada yada, could grow to trust you, yada yada yada, please make her happy… That’s pretty much it.”

“Wow,” said Dawn. “Coming from Giles, that’s…” She couldn’t think how to explain it.

“That’s… so Giles-y…” said Willow, then explained. “I mean, he’s always known what’s best for Buffy… and he’s never really liked Spike. He’s practically giving her away… in a non-married, non-father-y sense. I guess if Giles is good with the whole Spike thing, then Buffy can go ahead and love him without fearing the Wrath of the Watcher.”

“Or the Wrath of the Scoobies,” admitted Xander.

“Hey, I would’ve been fine with it,” said Dawn. “No Wrath of Dawn.”

“Enough with the Wrath,” interjected Anya. “Who’s next?”

Xander put Spike’s letter to one side to give to him later. “Me,” he said.

“Finally, I am hereby promoting you to take care of Dawn - should she need it; after all, she’s growing up - and be there for Buffy and Willow. Even with Spike around, you’re outnumbered by the womenfolk. Be Alexander, the Great Protector. If that’s too much to ask, be Xander, the Man, like I know you can be.”

Xander smiled to himself, muttering, “Love ya, Giles…” and folded his letter to put in his pocket. “I guess that just leaves you, An. I’m guessing if he writes to Buffy it’ll be in the mail.”

“Saved the best ‘til last,” she said, smiling somewhat smugly.

“It was random, Anya…” explained Dawn, the ‘duh’ implied.

“That’s what he said…” she answered, implying it wasn’t random in the slightest. Xander intervened quickly, clearing his throat before reading the final letter.

“You may be a vengeance demon again - sorry; justice demon - but… try not to wreak havoc. Diplomacy works far better, especially for an aspiring businesswoman like yourself. And for goodness’ sake, let Xander move back in. Buffy’s house is crowded enough already.”

She laughed. Xander handed her the paper and gave her an expectant look. “I’ll… think about it,” she said. It wasn’t a ‘yes’, but it was close enough. He smiled. “So is there any more?”

“Uh… just final words…”

“Your Grown-Up Friend (not in a scary way), Giles”

The room fell into silence. Somehow, the fact that he’d still signed it off with his surname wasn’t strange in the slightest. He’d always been ‘Giles’; never Rupert, never both names together. Willow smiled to herself at his sign-off, since he’d remembered her own wording over six years ago. Nearly all of the Scoobies were sniffling, Xander included, and none of them said a word. There was really nothing else to say.

The Bronze…

Sunnydale’s only nightclub was shut, despite the relatively early hour. Buffy figured that would make searching for Spike a lot easier, though, since there’d be nobody else there; it would make their conversation more private, too, since they wouldn’t be shouting over the crowds. This place held memories for them, too. The end of Sweet’s spell, for one, when they’d kissed in the alley behind the building to the final refrain of her friends’ song. And then there was the night after Willow’s memory spell - Buffy made a mental note to have a word with her about her spells-that-went-wrong, since they always seemed to end up with her kissing Spike.

She found the fire door ajar - either a coincidence, or Spike’s own access point - and she stepped into the dimness. The only light came from the streetlights outside, vaguely illuminating the area by the open door, which creaked as she pushed it further open in an attempt to lighten the interior. The high windows let in some of the moonlight, but not enough to make a difference. That was when she spotted him. He was up on the catwalk - another place of decidedly bad memories - and only his head was visible, reflecting the moonlight and giving him that same ethereal appearance as in her dream all those nights ago. The rest of him, clothed in black as usual, vanished into the darkness. If he’d sensed her, he didn’t make it obvious.

Buffy made her way to the steps at the opposite end of the catwalk to him, giving herself a few more seconds of thinking space. As she ascended, her footsteps echoed dully off the metal. Spike came into view, head-first, most of him still obscured by dark; he was leaning on the railings, his hands clasped, staring dead ahead.

She stopped at the top of the steps. What to say? It was impossible to gauge his mood when he was in profile, other than the fact that he was clearly thinking. It seemed to be more a case of what to do to get his attention. The best option seemed to be a light-hearted approach. She cleared her throat. “Y’know… if you wanted to dance, the music’s better at home.”

He didn’t answer, but finally turned his head to look at her, and from his position, he surveyed her. They looked remarkably similar, if they did but know it. She glowed in the light, all pale skin and light hair framing her face, like an angel. Her body from the neck down was completely obscured by his duster, even her hands as she hugged it around herself. His Buffy, the Slayer, all that was good and pure and against-all-evil, was standing there wrapped in the trademark of a self-confessed and once-proud killer. She was beautiful and deadly, and all the more dangerous for it. Spike found her suddenly irresistible - she was the epitome of Slayer-gone-bad, as he’d dreamed once, a long time ago - but just as quickly, he was disgusted with himself for thinking it, and nauseated by himself, by his prized trophy, for tainting her. He looked away again with a ragged breath, and began to mutter something. She had to strain to hear him, but identified it as a poem instantly.

“O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.”

His voice was surprisingly light, his Cockney accent oddly missing; in its place was what she could only assume his native accent had been - well-bred and English, nervous, innocent. She wondered if the cocky-London-Spike-voice was an act after all, but, hopefully, they’d have time to discuss that later.

“Wow…” she said. “Was that a William the Bloody original?”

He smiled. “No…” When he turned to look at her again, the smile reached his eyes in fondness for her literary ignorance, and when he spoke again, the gentleman she’d heard was gone. “If it was, I wouldn’t be here now, I reckon. It’s William Blake’s, that one…”

“Right…” She knew he had to have recited it for a reason, but the analysis could come later. Right now, they had a Conversation to get through. “You know we need to talk, Spike.”

“Yeah.” It was resigned to the degree that she wanted to give up, as well.

“Look, I don’t want to either, but-“

“So let’s not bother,” he said, suddenly, more animated than she’d seen him all night. His raised voice startled her slightly, and he could tell, so he lowered it again. “Buffy… talking isn’t our thing. We both know that.”

“Maybe it wasn’t before,” she explained. “But if we want this to work - and God, I want this to work - then talking is going to be mandatory. So I figure we should start now.”

He sighed, and sought out a table, collapsing into one of its chairs and burying his head in his hands. “Talking uproots pain,” he said, refusing to meet her gaze for the third time that night. “Memories, an’ all. Of what I did to you.” This time, when he looked up, she saw unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I don’t think I can go through that again… don’t think I can make you go through it…”

She fought back tears of her own, reminding herself instead how infuriating he could be sometimes. “You think it’ll be a day at the park for me? This is going to be tough on both of us, but it needs to be done.” She sat opposite him; as she grasped his hand, she remembered she’d forgotten to tell him the good news, but supposed the lack of electricity in their touch would be explanation enough. “I hurt you more, Spike. Way more. But if we don’t get it out of the way and behind us, all that hurt is just going to fester and… and I don’t want anything to ruin what I know we can achieve.”

He nodded, sniffing, blinking back the tears. “Where do we start, then?”

She let go of him and raked both hands through her hair. “Ugh, I don’t know…”

“S’pose I should explain the poem…” Buffy nodded, although she was pretty sure she knew what it was in aid of. A little prod in the right direction would ascertain if she was right or not, though. Spike repeated it, faster and with less performance, to remind her. It looked like he was going to give her a lengthy explanation, which indicated he’d been thinking about it too much lately, but decided against it, and simply explained, “You’re the rose, pet.”

“Yeah, I got that…”

“Which makes me the worm. The parasite; that’s all vampires are, really. Eatin’ away at people and life until there’s nothing left. My love’s destroyed you…”

Buffy tried to reassure him as best she could. She’d realised the poem summed up their relationship, but not in quite the annihilistic way that Spike had interpreted it. “You’re not a parasite… and yeah, okay, so what we had was a secret from everyone, but it didn’t destroy either of us. I’m not destroyed.”

“But-“

“I’m not.” Her hand found his again, squeezing it. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be down to you. C’mon, Spike. If I can admit it to myself, you have to as well. I was self-destructo Buffy for way too long and I just dragged you along for the ride.”

“Doesn’t excuse it,” he said, only half-listening. He’d worked himself up into rambling apologies, unable to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Buffy. Never, ever wanted that.”

“I-I know.” She bit her lip, hoping her next words came out as sincerely as she wanted them to be. “I forgive you. You know that, right?” He was looking at the table again, and she could only convince him if she could look him in the eye. She lifted his chin with her free hand, and repeated it. “I forgive you.” There were the tears again, as he stared at her with those big eyes of his. This time, it was she who had to look away, down at the table he’d been finding so interesting. “I guess I deserved it, after everything I-“

“Don’t ever say that.” His adamant tone caused her to instantly look up again; his eyes had widened almost comically, shocked she could even think that had been his reasoning. “You already apologised for the usin’, love. And I’d already forgiven you… so many times. I don’t know why I… did that… tried to do that…” He gave up trying to give his actions a name, realising they didn’t deserve to be called anything human. “But I do know it wasn’t revenge. And for the record, neither was what happened with Anya.”

Buffy had nearly forgotten that. “But I thought-“

“You thought wrong. She and I already chatted that out, while you were gone, and we’ve agreed it was a mistake, but it happened for a reason, and it needed to happen. I know it can’t be taken back, Buffy, but…”

“It’s okay. I don’t…” She was going to say ‘care’, but it sounded too harsh, under the circumstances. “I… I get why it happened. I probably would’ve done the same thing. Although, uh, obviously not with Anya…”

That managed to raise a smile. “I was surprised you didn’t,” he said.

“So was I…” she admitted. “I guess it would’ve hurt you more that it hurt me… and let’s face it, I wasn’t exactly trying to make your life easier back then.”

Spike seemed to search her face for a moment, and Buffy wondered what she’d just said that could mean so much. Finally, he asked, “So… so it did hurt you, then? Me and Anya?”

A memory returned unbidden to her brain, of Willow tapping into the camera and herself and Xander watching the live footage like a pair of masochistic voyeurs, unable to look away, hoping it was a trick. She blinked painfully, trying to rid herself of the residual image, and then focussed her attention back on present-day Spike. He was being patient, in itself an indicator of exactly how much he’d changed since he returned. Slowly, she nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it did. A lot more than I thought it would.”

Some part of him was pleased, but it wasn’t the time. Buffy was reliving that pain, and he had to make it up to her. “That wasn’t my intention,” he said. “Anya was just on a vengeance kick and I was convenient.”

That sounded too familiar. Then, Buffy remembered telling him the same thing and felt horrible. She’d been remembering, randomly, all the things she’d said to him the past year, but some things she’d forgotten. Things that seemed petty, but that she now realised must have scarred deeper than most of the physical blows she’d inflicted. He’d forgiven her too easily; she still felt the need to apologise for everything. “You weren’t convenient,” she told him. His expression told her that Anya probably would have told her differently, so she explained, “Not then. When we… the first time. When I said you were convenient… You weren’t.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what to say that wouldn’t sound contrived, so he said nothing. Buffy’s sincerity constantly threw him for a loop. He hoped his thankful expression was enough, and continued with his explanation. “I… I did go there for a spell…”

“You wanted it to stop…” she muttered, paraphrasing what he’d said to her in the bathroom.

“I wanted it to stop,” he repeated, confirming it. His chest felt tight, although it had no reason to, and he swallowed. “You know, I never realised loving someone could hurt so much. Yeah, it hurt with Dru… but she was sadistic as well as insane. It doesn’t count. But with you…”

“I’m sorry for making it worse.”

He shrugged to imply it didn’t matter, although she wasn’t buying it. “Par for the course, love.”

At this point, their conversation stopped. There were only so many apologies one could make, and only so many things to be forgiven for. Silence fell, as they stared at each other from either side of the table, trying to figure out if there was anything left to say. Of course, there was plenty they could talk about, plenty of past hurt and regrets, but they’d be there all night, and Buffy was beginning to want to end the conversation and get to the good part.

“So…” she said, after a while. “We’ve covered ‘I’m sorry’, we’ve covered ‘I forgive you’… I think we’re done.”

Spike was about to say something, but faltered, realising what she’d actually said. “We’re done?” he asked, trying to stop the smile that was threatening to break out.

She nodded, slowly. “Well, as done as we’re gonna be. I do kinda wanna get home at some point tonight…”

Spike was all-too-willing to agree with her, but something still didn’t feel right. In truth, the discussion hadn’t been as hideous as he’d imagined it would be, but he couldn’t help feeling as though they’d gone through it all for no purpose. What was missing? He stared intently at the Slayer, trying to work it out. Then, it hit him, and he felt like an idiot for forgetting.

“Me, too,” he said, “but I think we’ve got one more thing to talk about.”

“Really?” She seemed disappointed, having had the prospect of her warm bed postponed momentarily.

“Mm.” He grasped both of her hands on the table-top, pondering how to phrase his next words. “We’ve sorted the past mistakes… but I’d like to have some idea of what’s going to happen now…”

“Oh.” Her voice was practically inaudible. She’d known this would come, eventually. In theory, telling Spike what she knew he wanted to hear should have been easy, since she’d done it once; in practice, now she wasn’t almost going to die, it was twice as difficult. “Guess I owe you that, huh?”

He fought back a scream of exasperation and conceded to roll his eyes instead. “Buffy… you don’t owe me anything. I just want to know where I stand, is all.” When she didn’t immediately answer, he let go of her, and stood, resuming his original place near the railings. “I need to know what I am to you, now. Your friend? Lover... no, scratch that; ex-lover? Neutered pet vampire with too much of a conscience for his own good…?”

Buffy turned in her seat to look at him, and wondered when she’d managed to destroy him to this much of a degree, and how much of his current, residual self-hatey state was down to the soul, and how much was purely because of her actions the past year. It wasn’t a ratio she was particularly driven to working out. They’d talked through their emotional problems, but it would take a lot to erase all the mess in Spike’s brain. She was beginning to think she wasn’t strong enough, and felt awful for it; she’d caused it, after all, so she should have been able to fix it. But no. Buffy had broken things as a child, and it had been her Mom who put them back together. She’d give anything right now to have that liberty again.

He’d said she didn’t owe him anything, but he was wrong. She owed him plenty, for everything he’d done, and everything he’d given her. She’d been a mess herself, when she’d come back, and Spike had been there, fixing her. She owed him that much: fixing him in return.

Fighting against tears as she realised it fell down to her alone, Buffy placed a hand in the small of his back. “Spike…”

He turned; he saw the tears in her eyes, but knew better than to mention it, or to work out what (or who) they were for. She said nothing else for the moment, merely searched his face, staring up at him from her position in the chair. “I mean it, Buffy,” he told her. “It’s your call. It always has been.”

Screw being strong, she thought, as the tears tracked down her cheeks against her will. She couldn’t be strong and be honest at the same time. “Don’t you remember…?” she asked. “Don’t you remember what I said, at the building site?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, resignedly. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I want to… but I know it was just a spur-of-the-moment, might-not-come-back-alive thing, and I know how that can do funny things to a person’s emotions. I’m not holding you to anything.” He moved a stray lock of hair out of her face with one hand, but moved out of her space afterwards. “I know we can be friends.”

“It’s not enough for you…”

“Maybe not,” he admitted. “But if it’s enough for you, then I’m willing…”

Why the Hell was he being so stubborn and blind? Couldn’t he see what she was getting at? Well, Buffy was beginning to doubt her own coherency by this point, so she was entirely sure Spike was on the right tracks on his side of the conversation, judging by what she’d given him. It was time to start making sense, to the best of her mind’s ability at the moment. She grabbed onto both of his hands, and pulled, forcing him to kneel at her level so she could see his face. He gave her a questioning expression.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

To Spike’s credit, he covered his shock and minor amusement remarkably well, considering, while Buffy’s mind was screaming, What the Hell was that?! at her. Randomly, she suddenly realised how expressive his face could be, as he managed to cycle through confusion, consternation, irritation, and, finally, sincerity, without saying a word. “I don’t know how you can even ask me that,” he said, quietly, without a hint of any bitterness. “You know I love you. I always will, Buffy; and you know that, too.”

She nodded, relieved for a reason she couldn’t fathom. “So you say you love me, but you’re happy being my friend?” His entire demeanour radiated disappointment as he nodded back at her. She’d finally managed to stop the flow of tears, luckily, and fixed a nervous, half-smile on her face instead. Carefully, she knocked a fist lightly on the top of his head, twice, to imply its hollowness, and left her hand resting there with the palm flat. “Did that soul make you crazy as well as broody?”

He raised an eyebrow at her change in tone (and, more likely, at her ‘broody’ comment.) “Probably… Not entirely sure what you’re gettin’ at, love…”

“I noticed.” She rolled her eyes, then trailed her hand from the top of his head to his cheek, tracing the side of his face, and making sure he wouldn’t look away from her as he’d been apt to do all evening. “If it’s not obvious yet, we already are friends. And if you want to know what you are to me, well, here’s a list for ya: friend; life-saver; confidante; partner - in fighting evil, in fighting each other, in protecting my friends, in patrolling… and I got a whole bunch more where they came from. That isn’t what counts; what does count is what I want you to be for me, what I think you could be, what I’ve seen behind your eyes. You’re not a ‘thing’. You’re not a monster-“

He interrupted. “’M not a man, either…”

She moved the hand on his cheek slightly, reassuringly. “Maybe not… but you have a heart greater than most men do, and you’ve let me rip it out on more than one occasion, when putting a stake through it would probably have been more humane for the both of us…” Her free hand moved to his chest, in a silent gesture of returning it as well as reassuring physical contact, and that hand, too, stayed where it landed. She could’ve sworn she felt something beating beneath his skin, even though it was impossible. “And, not meaning to damage your Big-Bad-y pride, but… you’ve changed. I don’t see a vampire when I look in your eyes. I see you, Sp…” She stopped. Surely Spike was the vampire she was claiming not to see? She repeated it, changing her mind. “I see you… William.”

At the use of his given name, he closed his eyes painfully. Partially, he remembered the last time she’d used it, when she’d told him it was over between them. But apart from that, he didn’t feel worthy of the name any more, and especially not when it was coming from her lips. “I’m not William. Not any more. He wouldn’t do the things I’ve done. He wouldn’t try to… to make you love him with violence and psychological warfare. No, William’d regale you with poetry and pretty language and chivalry. You can’t even begin to compare me to him.”

“Look at me, dammit…” He obliged, opening his eyes again. “I can compare, Spike, if that’s what you’d rather be called. And I don’t know if you noticed, but you were pretty much one with the poetry yourself, earlier.” She sighed, despairing of him. “William is still in there somewhere, and you may not see it, but I do.”

He was silent, completely unable to think of how to answer. Buffy searched his face, seeing his conflicting emotions and confusion. She muttered ‘Screw it…’ to herself, and, before he could react or realise what she was doing, she leant forwards and kissed him. At first, he froze, not quite able to believe it; then, he was kissing her back, softly, still a little unsure of whether or not even that was allowed. Buffy let his coldness take over, numbing her rambling thoughts where they stood, until she was sure she could say precisely what she wanted when next she spoke.

She let Spike be the one to pull away, and when he did, it was too soon. He seemed to think so, too, and resembled someone who was giving up on an addiction for their own good, despite the after-effects. He stared at her. Had that really just happened? He touched her face, ascertaining whether or not she was real. “Buffy…”

“Sh…” she said, before he could ruin it by asking questions. It was time to put this particular emotional demon to sleep. “Spike… William… whoever the Hell you want to be… I love you.”

He blinked. It looked like he was anticipating a punch in the teeth to follow her words, and when nothing came except her nervous smile, if was as if he let everything go. Suddenly, he had his head in her lap and both arms wrapped around her waist, trying to stifle a series of noisy sobs, while she stroked his back and completely failed at not letting his emotional outburst get to her. Eventually, he quieted and lifted his head again, sniffed noisily, and adopted an apologetic expression.

“Sorry. I just… you… after everything…”

“I know…” she said, wiping her eyes irritatedly. “Now, let’s go home, and figure out what to do with our lives…”

He nodded his vehement agreement to that suggestion and got to his feet, pulling Buffy out of her chair and into his arms, holding her tight against him as she returned the gesture. He buried his face into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “God, I love you…” He whispered it close to her skin, and it resounded through her body, from the brain down.

She pulled out of his arms, unwillingly, but knowing they couldn’t spend the entire night where they were. “I love you, too. But can we please leave?” He smiled, and nodded; she led him out of the abandoned Bronze, and into the streets, heading back to the house. They walked hand in hand, silently, both of them thinking over the conversation they’d just had, Buffy especially wondering why it had taken so long for her to say three relatively simple words, but deciding it was worth it, in the end.

They’d reached Main Street, when she suddenly realised something. “Oh, Spike? I completely forgot. Your coat…”

They stopped walking and he looked down. “What about it?”

“I meant to thank you for lending it to me. It’s really quite cosy, once you learn to ignore the smell of beer, smoke and demon entrails…” She gave him a smirk to imply she was only kidding; she wouldn’t have his duster smell any other way. “Anyway, here…” She started to shrug out of it, but Spike’s hands on her shoulders stopped her.

Off her quizzical look, he said, “Looks better on you, love.”

“Liar…” That made him laugh, luckily, a sound which was refreshing after the night they’d had. “You know there’s a box of cigarettes and your Zippo in the pocket, right?”

He’d divested her of the coat in two seconds flat and was immediately kneeling on the floor, rooting through the pockets, emerging triumphant from the folds of leather with a cigarette in one hand and his lighter in the other. He took the world’s longest drag and breathed out. She giggled, the expression of relief on his face entirely too funny. She felt oddly vulnerable without the duster, though; it really was very good for making a person feel empowered, or simply for shrouding oneself in when the going got tough. It was hardly surprising Spike was emotionally fraught. The duster was like a spare body part to him.

He picked it up off the ground and brushed the dirt from it, then proceeded to carry it over his arm. She looked at him curiously. “You’re not going to wear it?”

He shook his head. “Bad memories.”

She sighed heavily, pulled it from him, and held it aloft. “Arm,” she ordered. He complied, putting first one limb, then the other, through the arm-holes of the coat. Soon, he was adjusting it on himself, making himself comfortable, and relaxing into it. For a moment, he relished in the warmth it had retained from her body; Buffy stood back and looked him over with a nod, as he discarded the end of his cigarette into a nearby bush. “There. That’s the Spike I fell in love with.”

He rewarded her with the most radiant grin she’d ever seen him give, and reached out for her hand again. She blushed at herself, aware that words were flowing without her having much control over them, but no longer really caring. The rest of their walk back to Revello Drive passed in silence, as it had started. Buffy’s problems, of course, were far from over - she still had to deal with her friends and their reaction to whatever Giles had written in the letter - but for the moment, at least, everything was finally right with the world.