Come In, Spike
By Delylah
Summary: Spike's thoughts on Buffy's resurrection
Disclaimers: I don't own these characters. I'm merely playing in Joss Whedon's universe
Feedback: Always appreciated
I stared at the marks the stone wall had cut into my hand and laughed, or sobbed. Maybe both. It was so funny. They were just like the marks on her hands, raw and open, trickling blood. Kinda like the hole in my heart.
You would think that hole would have closed, as I stood there in the doorway, watching her descend the stairs so slowly. It was Buffy, not the Bot. She was back. Yet when my eyes met hers and saw the shadows there, and then dropped to see the terrible gouges on her knuckles, rather than rejoicing, I despaired.
I didn't want this for her. I could imagine her fear when she first drew breath in her own coffin only to find there was no air to breathe, only the stale scent of decay to fill her nostrils. Then the dirt and filth pouring in after she finally broke through the wooden top of her prison. It would have been suffocating. That she managed to reach the surface alive was a miracle. It was terrifying for me, that first night when I awoke six feet under the earth, but I didn't have to try to breathe as I dug my way out. She did; her horror must have been ten times what mine was, and I could see it in her eyes.
Her pain was tangible, like a bow-string drawn between us and pulled too tight, to the point of breaking. I still wonder that they couldn't see it as they crowded into the house like a bunch of pack hounds sniffing out their prey, pushing her, backing her into a corner like a frightened fox. I wanted to be there for her, protect her from them, but I couldn't control the rush of anger I felt when I realized they knew. They knew because they were responsible. The stupid gits had resurrected Buffy in her own coffin and abandoned her to struggle out of the ground alone. I could see Dawn bowing up like a lioness protecting her cub, driving them back from her and I knew it was ok for me to leave, that Buffy was in good hands.
I didn't get very far before the anger subsided into grief. When Buffy had died four and a half months ago I had grieved for myself, because she had left me alone in the dark, half-finished, unfulfilled and wanting. That night, that terrible night she returned, I grieved for her. Xander found me braced against the tree. His voice grated in my ears, nasal and snide, warning me away from Buffy. I hated him then, where I'd merely disliked him before, hated his arrogance and his ignorance. When I slammed him up against the tree I almost relished the spark from the chip. It fueled my anger. They had dared to play God and thought they had been lucky. I knew better.
Then he dared me to look him in the eye and tell him that seeing Buffy alive wasn't the happiest moment of my entire existence. So I looked him in the eyes, and he saw the truth and was afraid.
Gazing at the marks on my hand now, I knew I could not be happy, may never be happy again, not while she was in so much pain. I remembered the happiest moment of my life. It was exactly 148 days ago, when she had invited me back into her life with three simple words.