Authors note: Thanks again for the reviews! Although I didn't get any for last chapter :::pouts:::. Anyway, this one is a little longer. Also, we're finally getting into it. For those of you waiting on the Spuffy…don't worry. It's coming. And a big thanks to Nikita for helping me out with the names in this chapter!!
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There are cracks in the walls. Little cracks, barely noticeable in the smooth plaster overhead. But she can see them. Maybe there's something wrong with her, that she sees these cracks that nobody else can.
Or maybe when you stare at one place for two hours, you notice everything.
Were there cracks in the walls at home? In her girly room, in Dawn's, above her mother's bed? She can't remember.
Lying idly on her bunk, Buffy wonders where Spike had grown up. He had mentioned it once, she was sure. Had mentioned a party, talked about some woman, told her his history. She wishes she hadn't merely let his words drift over her. She wishes she had listened, and heard. If she had, maybe she'd know what to do now.
Maybe if she can put him together – built him a monument in her heart – she'll be whole too.
It's worth a shot.
While Xander sleeps, or pretends to sleep, she sets out. Walks along the narrow, dripping streets. Wonders if any part of his history even exists today. Sometimes it's hard to remember he lived over a hundred years ago.
So hard to think of Spike as dead, even now, when he really is. Dead to the last degree. Ash. Can't get much deader than that.
But when he was with her, he felt so alive. When he took a hell god's torture for hours to save her non-existent little sister. When he had taken the abuse she had put out on him, taken it merely because he loved her.
Spike couldn't be dead. But he was. And she doesn't even know his last name.
She asks directions from a random person on the street as though she was a tourist. Finds out the way to the nearest library. Is momentarily shocked as the smell of books reminds her of Giles.
"Can I help you?" A plump, middle ages woman peers at her curiously through her glasses.
Can she? Buffy doesn't know. She hopes so. Hopes the nice lady can help put her back together again.
"I need to know about William," she blurts out.
"Lots of Williams around here, dearie." The lady laughs.
Yes, there are. William the Conqueror, William the Magnificent, William Shakespeare.... Hundreds of Williams that did hundreds of important things. But she only cares about one.
"William…he said – I mean, I know that he lived in London. About a hundred years ago."
"This could take awhile," the nice lady warns. "Sure you got time to look for this guy?"
Buffy gives her a wry smile.
"All the time in the world."
She sits on one of the uncomfortable purple chairs and waits. The library is sunnier than her small hotel room, and the sun shines freely out of the big window. On a whim, she approaches it. The sun burns, makes her eyes tear up, but she doesn't shield them. She needs to look at the world.
…or the small part of the world that the dry grass in front of her represents. This is what Spike died to save. These few little dry plants that pale in comparison to his beauty. The world is so very plain when compared to him.
"Think I've found your boy," comes the lady's voice. Buffy jumps away from the window as though burned. "Now, there are two Williams. One William Ainsworth. And one William Barclay. Now let me see…" The lady rubs her glasses on her wool skirt before replacing them on her eyes. "This Ainsworth fellow, daft, heavy drinker, very commonly seen in bars, bad reputation, erm…died when he was in his twenty's."
So much like the image Spike showed. But she had a feeling it wasn't him.
"No, that's not him. Please tell about the other one."
"Alright. Barclay…now this fellow was a bit of a laugh up. Wrote poetry." She chuckled over the rim of her glasses. "Bloody awful poetry, they called it. Had a sister, she died when she was forty, father died before boy was born, and his mother died just a few days after him, he died under…mysterious circumstances." She shrugged. "No idea what that means, dearie."
"T-that's him. The one I'm looking for."
Her hands were shaking, and she had to dig her nails in her palms to stop from crying.
"Thank you. Where can I find more about him?"