The nice lady walked her to the house. Listed off the facts about the stone used for building, the fancy beams, the gnarled trees in the front garden. Talked about it in a normal voice, just as if she was describing some random house.
Buffy fought the urge to run away, felt almost as though she was trespassing. Wondered what Spike would think if he knew she was standing in front of his old home, nervously shifting from foot to foot, and writing her hands.
A small smile curled her lips. No need to wonder when it was so painfully obvious. He'd tell her to get her ass up and go inside. So for once in her life, she's listen to him.
The house had been turned into a sort of museum, the nice lady told her. Nobody had lived in it since the original occupants had died. After the son and mother had died so suddenly, and within such a short time of each other, the house had been regarded as haunted.
She walked up the stairs, starting when the top one creaked. Swept her hand along the banister, shiny under all the dust. Twisted a door-knob and watched as the door fell open.
It was just as he had left it. The nice lady had explained that after her darling brother's death, Clarise hadn't touched anything, just let it sit the way it was. That book balanced precariously on the small table – he had put it there, and there it had sat, untouched for a hundred years.
Buffy carefully shoved aside the red wire put up to prevent entry, and moved further into William's room. His bed was made perfectly, and as she lifted the sheets to her nose, she could almost sense that wiff of distinctly Spike aroma.
There was a desk with an open letter next to an open bottle of ink – all dried up. She glanced at the letter – he had left off at the 'dear'.
There were books…books everywhere. Books stacked up on the desk, books neatly sitting in shelves. On a whim, she opened one.
There have been times I
cannot hide
There have
been times when this was drear
When my sad
soul forgot its pride
And longed
for one to love me here
Poetry? Spike had poetry books, Bronte, judging from the cover. Poems about love, about souls. Poems that described so beautifully what he would become.
"I'm sorry," Buffy whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't love you while you were with me."
And then she was crying, and the little Emily Bronte book was getting soaked, and it wasn't right to ruin things this old. Sniffling, she put it back on it's shelf.
This was Spike. This was the William he tried so hard to hide, but that made up so much of who he was. The desperate, lovesick poet who wanted to be loved.
Her feet carried her over to the bed, and she curled herself on it, burying her nose in the pillows, trying hard to sniff out his scent. But it was gone. A hundred years plus, and the bedsheets smelled of London smog and cobwebs.
Awkwardly, she whipped at her face with the cover, drying her tears. As she made to draw the covers back, something hard hit her hand. She carefully took it out of the hiding spot under the covers. And Buffy laughed.
So like Spike – he couldn't not leave anything, would want the world to remember that he had been there. He hadn't left nothing. He had left William's diary.