ONE LAST GOODBYE
By Vixen
Angel was right. If there was anything Spike hated more about the current situation, it was the fact that Captain Forehead had been right when he said they weren't going to walk away from this fight alive. Wes was already gone; Charlie Boy was on his way. Spike dodged a large demon, only to stumble backwards when the slimy thing came in As he was knocked down, he saw Angel burst into dust, another fallen hero. Though Spike would never have called him that to his face. Still, it hurt, in some strange, indefinable way.
Only he and Little Blue Bertha remained now.
He didn't know how much longer he could hold out though; there were just too many demons. Too many of the Senior Partners' instruments of destruction, coming to pay them back for believing they could play the hero's role, that they could stand up for something they believed in, that they could stand up for anything. They weren't heroes though; at least, Spike knew he wasn't one. There was too much blood on his hands to be anything of the sort, too many victims of his violence, buried in the past.
Still, he fought on.
Kick, punch, get knocked down, get right back up. That was the dance he performed throughout the night, fighting for as long as he possibly could. He wasn't going to win, but he was sure as hell going to take as many of the slimy, mucus-spilling, fur-and-antler demon things with him along for the ride. Drag them all down to hell; make them know who they had come up against. He was Spike, William the Bloody, the scourge of Europe and in his final hours he was going to make sure the whole underground population knew his name.
Hell, he thought, as he ripped a Gebrrl demon's head off its shoulders and went towards another, maybe there was still a chance he would live through the night. Angel had said 10-to-1 odds; maybe he would be the one. Spike gave a rebel yell, kicking his way through the fray. His enthusiasm only lasted so long, however. Even he could slip up, get backed into a corner and tackled by a Wirtzz demon.
"Doesn't look good," he mumbled to himself as the thing pressed its weight on top of him. While it used its bony fingers to pin down both of his hands, Spike could do very little but curse as the thing slowly began to drive a piece of wood through his heart.
Spike's gaze traveled back towards the rest of the skirmish, trying to see how far away Illyria was, if she would be able to help him out. Across the flooded alleyway, he saw Charles' body, soul already departed. Beside him, Illyria fought with the strength of a madman, spurned on by the new strange pain she felt.
Grief.
It was a feeling Spike knew all too well. In that one last moment, before everything went black, he thought of the one thing he wished he could do before dying. Though, as unconsciousness hit, he knew he wasn't going to get his second chance.
A dense fog of nothingness swirled around him, Spike was losing himself, becoming one with the empty starless sky. When Drusilla had sired him, he had touched this void, for a moment. He remembered it well though; the sensation of being without shape or substance, lost in the Great Beyond. Though the first time he had died, he had only had a brief interlude with the Afterlife before he'd crawled out of the earth, to begin his new existence. Now he was surrounded by it, swimming in it.
It was quiet for Hell; Spike figured he'd have seen some fire and pain by now. Maybe Angel was getting his final punishment. Spike doubted Beelzebub would have let him see Angel's torment though; wouldn't be much of a hell if he got to see his old rival getting the what-for. Actually, Spike would have found it downright pleasurable; he would have gotten a good laugh out of it. Sure, he was a little sorry to see his chum die in battle, but eternal torment for the Poofter? Why the hell not.
There was little time to think on that however, as Spike's surroundings began to filter in light as the fog dissipated. Pinpoints of glowy brightness, then white, cloud-like things and a feeling of movement around him. Though it was hard to tell where he was moving to in the weightless space. He felt a whoosh of air pass by his face, and sighed with relief that once more his body had form and he was whole again.
Then his feet touched the ground.
He took a few guarded steps, taking it all in. He was alone, for now, and if he hadn't been confused as all hell, he would have been bored as all hell. There was nothing but white misty nothingness, which really wasn't much better than the darkness he had come from. If this is Heaven, he thought, what the hell was the use of repenting all those years and striving for redemption? Might as well have killed some more and gotten some jollies during the last years of being undead. Though that had never been much of an option, after falling for Buffy.
As the mists parted in front of him, Spike took a step forward and tilted his head slightly. He watched curiously as a shape began coming forward. Clothed in white, she moved with perfected grace. Spike's eyes moved up towards her face. When he saw whom it was, he let out an incredulous laugh. "Cordelia?"
"What? Like you've never see a Higher Power before?" She narrowed her eyes at him, breaking the peaceful quality the place had begun to take on. "Oh, yeah, you haven't. At least, not with the unlife you've led."
"Waiting for an explanation here," Spike said as he crossed his arms.
"Since I don't really like you, I'm gonna make this short, 'kay?" She didn't wait for an answer before beginning. "Let me sum it up: I work for the Powers That Be as a Higher Power. They've instructed me to give each of the Champions in LA who beat the Black Thorn, one last wish. For some reason," she shook her head, "that includes you."
"One last wish?" Spike began rolling the idea around in his head. There was only one thing he wanted to ask for. It was the only thing he'd wanted, ever since he'd came back with the help of the amulet in Los Angeles, months ago. Later, when he'd re-corporealized, the desire had only grown, along with the fear. Fear that she wouldn't take him back, fear that she wouldn't see him as a hero, as someone who had sacrificed himself to save the others. "Anything I want, huh?"
"With a few exceptions."
"And those would be?"
"Doesn't matter," she smirked, looking quite proud. "I already know what you're going to ask for, and it can be done. For a few hours at least. Now grow some guts already and just ask me to send you to go see Buffy."
Spike nearly growled at her smug attitude, but he relented. She was right. "Do it."
"Okay, but remember Cinderella, clock strikes 5 and you're back where you belong," She started to wave her hand, working her Higher Power mojo.
"So I come back here? Not so bad." It was boring, but at least it wasn't eternal flames and torment. Maybe he could even liven the place up a bit; it was, after all, what he did best.
"Oh no, honey, someplace much worse." She frowned grimly, dashing his idea of being saved away. Although there was a twinkle in her eyes, showing the faintest trace of amusement. With a quick nod of her head, she finished her job. "Bye now."
Only seconds later, Spike found himself in Buffy's room in her small Italian apartment. He could smell her scent around the bedroom, sandalwood perfume with a hint of sweet rosemary. It wasn't a dream, couldn't be something conjured up from the depths of hell; no one could replicate that scent. It was Buffy through and through. He watched her sleep, curled up in dreams and her peach-colored downy comforter. Lying there defenseless, it was hard to believe this was the same slayer who had kicked his ass hundreds of times.
He hesitated to wake her; there were too many things to say and not enough time or ways in which to say them. Instead, he turned his attention to the view from her balcony window. In the streets below, a few late night partygoers were ambling home, rather drunkenly. What he wouldn't give for a pint, he mused. Get up the courage to find the right words, the right way to tell her what she meant to him.
Behind him the shifting noise of the blankets moving caused him to turn around. She was awake, sitting up in bed. How beautiful she looked in the dim light of the night, quiet and peaceful, as her life should have been. Without any of the trouble he had caused her, without any of the pain.
Buffy brushed her blond tresses out of her eyes, stifling a yawn. She looked him over carefully, studying him, trying to discern whether he was a figment of her imagination or a hallucination caused by her overly tired brain. "Spike, is that really you?"
"Hey, pet," he whispered, wondering whether the troubled look she now wore on her face meant she wanted him to go, or if she still didn't trust what she saw in front of her eyes. Last time she had seen him, he'd died and now here he was again, making with the walking and the talking.
"I've had this dream before," she told him quietly, with equal measures of sadness and wit. "Usually it ends with the smell of Dawn burning breakfast." Pulling the blankets off, she stood up and walked over to him. When she was close enough, she reached out to touch his arm, just to make sure that he was really there.
"How is the little nibblet?" Her touch was heaven to him, the last bit he would feel before returning to his awaiting nightmare. Still, he kept the conversation light, not wanting to spoil the mood.
"Not quite so little anymore," Buffy took a few steps back, returning his casual banter. "She's loving the boys of Italy. They buy her flowers, take her out, speak funny Italian words that I don't understand to her. It's sweet. At least one of the people in this family get to have a semi-normal life." As soon as the words left her mouth, she looked up at him with repentance, "Not that there's anything wrong with a non-normal life. I actually liked my non-normal life.. when you were there with me."
Her voice trailed off, leaving a deep silence between them. Inwardly, Spike was kicking himself for being so nervous. He'd never been worried about anything before her; never felt the need to bottle up what was inside him. "Heard you were gettin' along with the boys here too. The Immortal. Andrew said you and he-"
Buffy started to giggle so hard she could barely stand, "The Immortal? Oh god, no. We're just friends, completely. Like.. just.. gah!" She stopped herself after a moment and then continued in a more serious tone, "He's a good fighter. That's All. Trust me."
Spike sat down on her bed, letting the news filter in. That had put one fear to rest at least. "Really?"
She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a spot on the bed next to him. "Really! Geez, you should learn not to trust anything Andrew says. The kid means well, but wow, is he missing a few brain cells."
He looked at the floor, still not sure if he was where he should be. They didn't have a lot of time, and in less than an hour he would have to leave her. Again. He felt her hand touch his cheek, and he turned to face her, "Buffy.. there's so much to tell you." It then began spilling out. She listened to all of it without interrupting. Everything from when he last saw her, to waking up a ghost in Wolfram and Hart, trying to do the right thing as a part of the team in LA, to finally dying and seeing her being his final wish.
There was one thing he did leave out, the fact that he would be leaving again. If the clock on her antique nightstand was telling the truth, they had less than an hour to spend together. He didn't want her to know that, it would be better if the evening's pace flowed naturally and wasn't rushed with the knowledge of his inevitable departure.
"So," she finally spoke again when he was finished, "she really cut off your hands? Andrew left that part out of his report."
"Lay my heart out on the line, and that's all you have to say?"
"That and.. I missed you. And also," she punched him in the arm, "You should have told me you were alive!" The angry scowl soon faded away, as she touched her lips to his, breaking away she whispered, "I really did miss you."
"Can't imagine how many times I wanted to touch you, to call you." He told her, trying to make up for the time they had lost due to his own fear. "Picked up the phone to do just that a dozen times a day. Just couldn't though. You thought I was a hero, just wanted you to believe that a little longer."
"Spike," she looked at him seriously, "you are a hero. Granted, you weren't always, but you've changed. I've watched you change; I've seen the good you can do when you really want to. After the Initiative put that chip in your head—"
"Wasn't the Initiative, Pet. It was you." He ran his hand through her hair, trying to memorize each line of her face, each curve of her lips when she spoke. "Fell in love with the slayer, was never the same again." His hand traced her cheek, enjoying the feel of smooth baby soft skin. "You changed me. Just thought you should know." That had been all he came here for, really. He had half-expected to find her with The Immortal, worried that she would turn her back on him as she had done so many times in the past. Still, she had to know what she had begun, the change that wrote the rest of his fate.
"You died thinking that I didn't love you, that I couldn't. I'm sorry. And I do." As she pulled him in towards her, the fears he had held for so long seemed to vanish instantaneously. "Whether or not I started your whole transformation from big bad to the one who saved us all, you're the one who tried. You're the one who fought for your soul." She lay down on the bed, and he followed. The heat of her body made up for his cool touch, warming him to the core, as they began getting reacquainted with the expanse of each other's bodies. It was the last time he would ever feel her moving beneath him, smell the sweet sweat in the air, hear her as she reached the point of ecstasy. He would remember it all, every feeling, every sound. It would stay with him, memorized and complete, even while they were trying to drive him crazy in hell. There was nothing they could do to him, as long as he remembered this one night, when he was certain that she loved him.
When they finished, Buffy rested her head on his chest. She looked sleepy. She'd probably been up until at least three in the morning before Spike had showed up. That had been her usual schedule in Sunnydale: patrol until three, sleep in till noon, show up to work late. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had memorized all these little facts about her without realizing it. All her little quirks that made up his girl, his Buffy. Now as her eyes drooped a bit and she yawned, he was torn between wanting her to stay up with him as the clock slowly ticked its way to five o'clock and knowing that she needed her rest. Finally he told her, "Get some sleep, Buffy."
Her voice was low when she asked, "Will you still be here when I wake up?"
He wished he would, wished they could spend the rest of forever together, but it wasn't in the cards for them. Even when she died, she would go to a far better place than he would. But he lied to her anyway; giving her the last bit of hope he had left, "Sure, Pet." In his mind he added, 'At least in spirit.'
As she slowly fell into a deep sleep, he could feel the energy dragging him down, the wish coming to an end. "All right," he muttered, "I'm coming."
When Buffy awoke, she figured it had all been a dream. At least it didn't end with him burst into flames as her nightmares usually did, she mused. It had been a good one for a change, and she had told him every bit of truth that she had been saving up for the chance that they might meet again. She had told him she loved him, and he knew she had meant it. Even if it had all been a dream, in the next few days that passed it made her feel better than she had since he had died in Sunnydale.
It was a Saturday when the news came, in the form of her bubbly kid sister bringing in the mail. "Here, you got a letter from someone in Los Angeles, hope its not another apocalypse because I am so going to the dance with Cory next week."
"Dawn," Buffy reached for the letter, "You know you can't stay here alone if I have to leave. I doubt its anything bad though."
"Well, Andrew could watch me. He's not as incapable as you thin-." Dawn's voice stopped as she noticed the look that came over Buffy's face. "What, what is it? What happened? What's wrong?"
Buffy could barely hear her sister's voice as she read the letter again, hoping there was some mistake, that in reading it a second time it would say something else. She had tears coming down her cheeks as she said, "They're dead. They all went out as heroes." She wiped the tears from her eyes, instantly knowing that her 'dream' had been real. "Even Spike."
END.
Notes – Written for the Choose Your Author Ficathon
By Vixen
Angel was right. If there was anything Spike hated more about the current situation, it was the fact that Captain Forehead had been right when he said they weren't going to walk away from this fight alive. Wes was already gone; Charlie Boy was on his way. Spike dodged a large demon, only to stumble backwards when the slimy thing came in As he was knocked down, he saw Angel burst into dust, another fallen hero. Though Spike would never have called him that to his face. Still, it hurt, in some strange, indefinable way.
Only he and Little Blue Bertha remained now.
He didn't know how much longer he could hold out though; there were just too many demons. Too many of the Senior Partners' instruments of destruction, coming to pay them back for believing they could play the hero's role, that they could stand up for something they believed in, that they could stand up for anything. They weren't heroes though; at least, Spike knew he wasn't one. There was too much blood on his hands to be anything of the sort, too many victims of his violence, buried in the past.
Still, he fought on.
Kick, punch, get knocked down, get right back up. That was the dance he performed throughout the night, fighting for as long as he possibly could. He wasn't going to win, but he was sure as hell going to take as many of the slimy, mucus-spilling, fur-and-antler demon things with him along for the ride. Drag them all down to hell; make them know who they had come up against. He was Spike, William the Bloody, the scourge of Europe and in his final hours he was going to make sure the whole underground population knew his name.
Hell, he thought, as he ripped a Gebrrl demon's head off its shoulders and went towards another, maybe there was still a chance he would live through the night. Angel had said 10-to-1 odds; maybe he would be the one. Spike gave a rebel yell, kicking his way through the fray. His enthusiasm only lasted so long, however. Even he could slip up, get backed into a corner and tackled by a Wirtzz demon.
"Doesn't look good," he mumbled to himself as the thing pressed its weight on top of him. While it used its bony fingers to pin down both of his hands, Spike could do very little but curse as the thing slowly began to drive a piece of wood through his heart.
Spike's gaze traveled back towards the rest of the skirmish, trying to see how far away Illyria was, if she would be able to help him out. Across the flooded alleyway, he saw Charles' body, soul already departed. Beside him, Illyria fought with the strength of a madman, spurned on by the new strange pain she felt.
Grief.
It was a feeling Spike knew all too well. In that one last moment, before everything went black, he thought of the one thing he wished he could do before dying. Though, as unconsciousness hit, he knew he wasn't going to get his second chance.
A dense fog of nothingness swirled around him, Spike was losing himself, becoming one with the empty starless sky. When Drusilla had sired him, he had touched this void, for a moment. He remembered it well though; the sensation of being without shape or substance, lost in the Great Beyond. Though the first time he had died, he had only had a brief interlude with the Afterlife before he'd crawled out of the earth, to begin his new existence. Now he was surrounded by it, swimming in it.
It was quiet for Hell; Spike figured he'd have seen some fire and pain by now. Maybe Angel was getting his final punishment. Spike doubted Beelzebub would have let him see Angel's torment though; wouldn't be much of a hell if he got to see his old rival getting the what-for. Actually, Spike would have found it downright pleasurable; he would have gotten a good laugh out of it. Sure, he was a little sorry to see his chum die in battle, but eternal torment for the Poofter? Why the hell not.
There was little time to think on that however, as Spike's surroundings began to filter in light as the fog dissipated. Pinpoints of glowy brightness, then white, cloud-like things and a feeling of movement around him. Though it was hard to tell where he was moving to in the weightless space. He felt a whoosh of air pass by his face, and sighed with relief that once more his body had form and he was whole again.
Then his feet touched the ground.
He took a few guarded steps, taking it all in. He was alone, for now, and if he hadn't been confused as all hell, he would have been bored as all hell. There was nothing but white misty nothingness, which really wasn't much better than the darkness he had come from. If this is Heaven, he thought, what the hell was the use of repenting all those years and striving for redemption? Might as well have killed some more and gotten some jollies during the last years of being undead. Though that had never been much of an option, after falling for Buffy.
As the mists parted in front of him, Spike took a step forward and tilted his head slightly. He watched curiously as a shape began coming forward. Clothed in white, she moved with perfected grace. Spike's eyes moved up towards her face. When he saw whom it was, he let out an incredulous laugh. "Cordelia?"
"What? Like you've never see a Higher Power before?" She narrowed her eyes at him, breaking the peaceful quality the place had begun to take on. "Oh, yeah, you haven't. At least, not with the unlife you've led."
"Waiting for an explanation here," Spike said as he crossed his arms.
"Since I don't really like you, I'm gonna make this short, 'kay?" She didn't wait for an answer before beginning. "Let me sum it up: I work for the Powers That Be as a Higher Power. They've instructed me to give each of the Champions in LA who beat the Black Thorn, one last wish. For some reason," she shook her head, "that includes you."
"One last wish?" Spike began rolling the idea around in his head. There was only one thing he wanted to ask for. It was the only thing he'd wanted, ever since he'd came back with the help of the amulet in Los Angeles, months ago. Later, when he'd re-corporealized, the desire had only grown, along with the fear. Fear that she wouldn't take him back, fear that she wouldn't see him as a hero, as someone who had sacrificed himself to save the others. "Anything I want, huh?"
"With a few exceptions."
"And those would be?"
"Doesn't matter," she smirked, looking quite proud. "I already know what you're going to ask for, and it can be done. For a few hours at least. Now grow some guts already and just ask me to send you to go see Buffy."
Spike nearly growled at her smug attitude, but he relented. She was right. "Do it."
"Okay, but remember Cinderella, clock strikes 5 and you're back where you belong," She started to wave her hand, working her Higher Power mojo.
"So I come back here? Not so bad." It was boring, but at least it wasn't eternal flames and torment. Maybe he could even liven the place up a bit; it was, after all, what he did best.
"Oh no, honey, someplace much worse." She frowned grimly, dashing his idea of being saved away. Although there was a twinkle in her eyes, showing the faintest trace of amusement. With a quick nod of her head, she finished her job. "Bye now."
Only seconds later, Spike found himself in Buffy's room in her small Italian apartment. He could smell her scent around the bedroom, sandalwood perfume with a hint of sweet rosemary. It wasn't a dream, couldn't be something conjured up from the depths of hell; no one could replicate that scent. It was Buffy through and through. He watched her sleep, curled up in dreams and her peach-colored downy comforter. Lying there defenseless, it was hard to believe this was the same slayer who had kicked his ass hundreds of times.
He hesitated to wake her; there were too many things to say and not enough time or ways in which to say them. Instead, he turned his attention to the view from her balcony window. In the streets below, a few late night partygoers were ambling home, rather drunkenly. What he wouldn't give for a pint, he mused. Get up the courage to find the right words, the right way to tell her what she meant to him.
Behind him the shifting noise of the blankets moving caused him to turn around. She was awake, sitting up in bed. How beautiful she looked in the dim light of the night, quiet and peaceful, as her life should have been. Without any of the trouble he had caused her, without any of the pain.
Buffy brushed her blond tresses out of her eyes, stifling a yawn. She looked him over carefully, studying him, trying to discern whether he was a figment of her imagination or a hallucination caused by her overly tired brain. "Spike, is that really you?"
"Hey, pet," he whispered, wondering whether the troubled look she now wore on her face meant she wanted him to go, or if she still didn't trust what she saw in front of her eyes. Last time she had seen him, he'd died and now here he was again, making with the walking and the talking.
"I've had this dream before," she told him quietly, with equal measures of sadness and wit. "Usually it ends with the smell of Dawn burning breakfast." Pulling the blankets off, she stood up and walked over to him. When she was close enough, she reached out to touch his arm, just to make sure that he was really there.
"How is the little nibblet?" Her touch was heaven to him, the last bit he would feel before returning to his awaiting nightmare. Still, he kept the conversation light, not wanting to spoil the mood.
"Not quite so little anymore," Buffy took a few steps back, returning his casual banter. "She's loving the boys of Italy. They buy her flowers, take her out, speak funny Italian words that I don't understand to her. It's sweet. At least one of the people in this family get to have a semi-normal life." As soon as the words left her mouth, she looked up at him with repentance, "Not that there's anything wrong with a non-normal life. I actually liked my non-normal life.. when you were there with me."
Her voice trailed off, leaving a deep silence between them. Inwardly, Spike was kicking himself for being so nervous. He'd never been worried about anything before her; never felt the need to bottle up what was inside him. "Heard you were gettin' along with the boys here too. The Immortal. Andrew said you and he-"
Buffy started to giggle so hard she could barely stand, "The Immortal? Oh god, no. We're just friends, completely. Like.. just.. gah!" She stopped herself after a moment and then continued in a more serious tone, "He's a good fighter. That's All. Trust me."
Spike sat down on her bed, letting the news filter in. That had put one fear to rest at least. "Really?"
She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a spot on the bed next to him. "Really! Geez, you should learn not to trust anything Andrew says. The kid means well, but wow, is he missing a few brain cells."
He looked at the floor, still not sure if he was where he should be. They didn't have a lot of time, and in less than an hour he would have to leave her. Again. He felt her hand touch his cheek, and he turned to face her, "Buffy.. there's so much to tell you." It then began spilling out. She listened to all of it without interrupting. Everything from when he last saw her, to waking up a ghost in Wolfram and Hart, trying to do the right thing as a part of the team in LA, to finally dying and seeing her being his final wish.
There was one thing he did leave out, the fact that he would be leaving again. If the clock on her antique nightstand was telling the truth, they had less than an hour to spend together. He didn't want her to know that, it would be better if the evening's pace flowed naturally and wasn't rushed with the knowledge of his inevitable departure.
"So," she finally spoke again when he was finished, "she really cut off your hands? Andrew left that part out of his report."
"Lay my heart out on the line, and that's all you have to say?"
"That and.. I missed you. And also," she punched him in the arm, "You should have told me you were alive!" The angry scowl soon faded away, as she touched her lips to his, breaking away she whispered, "I really did miss you."
"Can't imagine how many times I wanted to touch you, to call you." He told her, trying to make up for the time they had lost due to his own fear. "Picked up the phone to do just that a dozen times a day. Just couldn't though. You thought I was a hero, just wanted you to believe that a little longer."
"Spike," she looked at him seriously, "you are a hero. Granted, you weren't always, but you've changed. I've watched you change; I've seen the good you can do when you really want to. After the Initiative put that chip in your head—"
"Wasn't the Initiative, Pet. It was you." He ran his hand through her hair, trying to memorize each line of her face, each curve of her lips when she spoke. "Fell in love with the slayer, was never the same again." His hand traced her cheek, enjoying the feel of smooth baby soft skin. "You changed me. Just thought you should know." That had been all he came here for, really. He had half-expected to find her with The Immortal, worried that she would turn her back on him as she had done so many times in the past. Still, she had to know what she had begun, the change that wrote the rest of his fate.
"You died thinking that I didn't love you, that I couldn't. I'm sorry. And I do." As she pulled him in towards her, the fears he had held for so long seemed to vanish instantaneously. "Whether or not I started your whole transformation from big bad to the one who saved us all, you're the one who tried. You're the one who fought for your soul." She lay down on the bed, and he followed. The heat of her body made up for his cool touch, warming him to the core, as they began getting reacquainted with the expanse of each other's bodies. It was the last time he would ever feel her moving beneath him, smell the sweet sweat in the air, hear her as she reached the point of ecstasy. He would remember it all, every feeling, every sound. It would stay with him, memorized and complete, even while they were trying to drive him crazy in hell. There was nothing they could do to him, as long as he remembered this one night, when he was certain that she loved him.
When they finished, Buffy rested her head on his chest. She looked sleepy. She'd probably been up until at least three in the morning before Spike had showed up. That had been her usual schedule in Sunnydale: patrol until three, sleep in till noon, show up to work late. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had memorized all these little facts about her without realizing it. All her little quirks that made up his girl, his Buffy. Now as her eyes drooped a bit and she yawned, he was torn between wanting her to stay up with him as the clock slowly ticked its way to five o'clock and knowing that she needed her rest. Finally he told her, "Get some sleep, Buffy."
Her voice was low when she asked, "Will you still be here when I wake up?"
He wished he would, wished they could spend the rest of forever together, but it wasn't in the cards for them. Even when she died, she would go to a far better place than he would. But he lied to her anyway; giving her the last bit of hope he had left, "Sure, Pet." In his mind he added, 'At least in spirit.'
As she slowly fell into a deep sleep, he could feel the energy dragging him down, the wish coming to an end. "All right," he muttered, "I'm coming."
When Buffy awoke, she figured it had all been a dream. At least it didn't end with him burst into flames as her nightmares usually did, she mused. It had been a good one for a change, and she had told him every bit of truth that she had been saving up for the chance that they might meet again. She had told him she loved him, and he knew she had meant it. Even if it had all been a dream, in the next few days that passed it made her feel better than she had since he had died in Sunnydale.
It was a Saturday when the news came, in the form of her bubbly kid sister bringing in the mail. "Here, you got a letter from someone in Los Angeles, hope its not another apocalypse because I am so going to the dance with Cory next week."
"Dawn," Buffy reached for the letter, "You know you can't stay here alone if I have to leave. I doubt its anything bad though."
"Well, Andrew could watch me. He's not as incapable as you thin-." Dawn's voice stopped as she noticed the look that came over Buffy's face. "What, what is it? What happened? What's wrong?"
Buffy could barely hear her sister's voice as she read the letter again, hoping there was some mistake, that in reading it a second time it would say something else. She had tears coming down her cheeks as she said, "They're dead. They all went out as heroes." She wiped the tears from her eyes, instantly knowing that her 'dream' had been real. "Even Spike."
END.
Notes – Written for the Choose Your Author Ficathon