Disclaimer: All characters are property of Joss Whedon & Mutant Enemy. I'm just borrowing them,and promise
to return them when I'm finished.
Song lyrics from Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve."
Spoiler Alert: Some spoilery info for Season 5, through "The Body."
Part I
It was only one hour ago—
It was all so different then.
Nothing yet has really sunk in
Looks like it always did…
It had been the longest day of her life. And the night ahead was shaping up to be even longer. She had to
get out of the house. Too many memories, like restless ghosts, would keep her awake. She wondered if she
could ever sleep there again. She went to check on Dawn. Checking on Dawn, "being strong" for her,
putting on her big sister/tough Slayer act had gotten them both—hell, gotten the whole gang, pretty much—
through the past several days. She'd held it together pretty well, shedding a few tears that felt like nothing
at the funeral, the cemetery. Maybe her friends had expected something more…but if she'd totally broken
down, could they have handled it? They'd never seen her broken—really broken—although perhaps they
thought they had. Nothing before this, with Angel, with anyone, could compare. If she'd let herself go, how
would they have reacted? Giles, Willow, Xander—they were everything to her…everything she had
left…but that very fact kept her from letting them see this pain. Maybe they were too close to share it with.
It was like telling someone you'd just met a deep, dark secret even your best friend didn't know…safer
because you weren't giving too much away. When people think they know you, you can hurt them more,
scare them more…scare yourself.
She was numb. She knew she should let herself feel something, but now, here, it wouldn't be right. She'd
have to be alone, like before, to let it out. She couldn't allow it to overcome her in front of the others… in
front of her little sister. All those fabricated memories didn't contain anything like the pain Dawn had faced
over the last month. First finding out she was the Key. Now this. They were alone, together. But Buffy was
lonelier than she'd ever been. One third of her family was gone. And she didn't know how long she could
hold on to what remained. Oh, Mommy, why did you have to leave us why why why couldn't I have helped
you? I can't do this please Mommy, I'm afraid. I never had the chance to say goodbye. Can you hear me?
Can you? She had to get out. Willow and Tara were sleeping in Dawn's room; Giles in the spare bedroom;
Xander and Anya on the sofa. She'd told them they didn't have to stay, but they had wanted to, perhaps for
their own comfort as much as hers. And she was glad they were here for Dawn, because she had to leave
for awhile…*I'm coming Mommy to talk to you*….
Part II
This flesh and bone.
It's just the way that we are tied in
But there's no one home.
I grieve…for you
You leave…me…
He couldn't believe he was here again. After last time, he'd promised himself he'd never come back. But
the reasons now were different than before, than all those times before. He'd just do what he had to do and
leave—she'd never know. It was best for both of them…well, particularly for him. Why invite more hurt?
Then again, being here at all was painful enough, thank you. He walked past his old crypt. Apparently,
nobody had taken up residence since he'd left. Didn't matter either way—he wouldn't be around long
enough to need a place to crash. It was unusually quiet. A stroke of luck for Sunnydale that on the one night
there'd be no patrol, there wasn't much to patrol for. He trudged up the hill to the newer section of the
cemetery. There were quite a few fresh graves, but he found the one he was looking for right away. A
simple headstone, embellished only with a small design of three intertwining flowers. And the inscription:
Joyce Elizabeth Summers
1957-2001
Love you forever Mom
Your girls
What had it been like for them to lose her? He reached back one hundred-odd years. Memories from
William's life were so ephemeral, Spike was never sure which were true. There was a woman with gentle
eyes and a sad smile. Her scent of lilacs. And there was a boy, perhaps ten years old, and a little girl of four
or so. The woman was kind, he knew that much…he'd heard her voice in dreams, singing sometimes,
punctuated by the small girl's laughter. And then a vision of the woman crumpled at the bottom of the
stairs…not moving. And the large man who smelt of drink. He didn't know William was watching. No one
ever knew. The laughter never returned after that, or the singing. How did it feel? It felt empty…lonely…it
hurt. Well, it would hurt if he were mortal, had a soul. As certain people kept reminding him, vamps
couldn't feel these things—or anything, for that matter, except physical pain. They said the demon took
over everything, obliterating the person, the soul, the feelings that were there before. So what were these
sensations, then? Were they ghosts of William's passion and pain? The itching a one-legged man feels on
the knee that's long gone? Stupid, pointless pondering…waste of time trying to figure it out. Someone else
was hurting now…and knowing her, she was keeping it a big bloody secret from everyone who mattered—
and anyone who could help.
He knelt before the headstone and remembered gentle eyes. A sad smile. Hot cocoa…an axe to the head,
that first time. He chuckled softly. "I'm no expert on mothering, Joyce, but even I could see you did a
bang-up job. Your girls were lucky to have you. Hell, the whole bloody world was." He laid down the
bunch of yellow roses. He'd found them growing wild in an abandoned lot. Did they count as stolen?
Stolen, like so many other things he'd considered his own? He hoped not. Spike started getting to his feet.
It was time to go…and to never look back. And then he heard it. It had always betrayed her presence to
him. The steady beat that reminded him of blood, of breathing, of blistering mortal energy. He couldn't
escape now. She was too close. And so he waited….
Part III
So hard to move on
Still loving what's gone.
Still, life carries on
Carries on and on and on
He was the last thing she expected to see, yet she was too numb to feel shock, surprise…anything. Buffy
watched him lay some flowers by the grave—yellow roses—how did he know? He'd stopped moving
entirely, which probably meant he sensed her presence. There was no point trying to avoid him, so….
"Spike. You're here. Why?"
He turned, looking into her eyes, and deeper, it seemed, with that strange intensity. He sounded defensive.
"Not doing any harm, Slayer—just paying my respects. I…I'm sorry about Joyce. She was—well—she
was…forget it, you don't need to hear this from me…."
"What? Say it. Tell me."
"I was just thinking, she was just about the only person in my unlife I've never had the urge to kill. She was
really different to me, you know."
"Yeah, I…yeah." She knew, but couldn't bring herself to remember everything, anything, right now. She
vaguely hoped what he said was the truth—that he'd really only stopped to say goodbye to Mom. What if
he were here on some kind vengeance quest? Maybe he saw this as a chance to take advantage of her
weakened state. If that were his plan, it would work. She was unarmed, both physically and mentally. She
wouldn't be fighting anyone tonight. But she wouldn't be leaving here, either. Not yet.
Buffy focused once again on Spike. He'd been watching her face this entire time, never looking away. Why
did it feel like he was reading her? How could he be? He'd always given her that sense, all the more
infuriating because he was so often on the mark when he finally voiced his observations. How could a
soulless demon be such a skilled reader of souls? Or maybe it was only her soul that was visible to him. It
was this very thought that had nauseated her before—brought chills of revulsion and panic that made her
say those things. The things that drove him away, she'd thought, for good. She'd had to do it, for all their
sakes. He would never be anything but a time bomb set to explode when they least expected it. If that chip
ever came out…stopped functioning…. For all she knew, the time for detonation might be right now. Either
way, she couldn't seem to care.
Spike looked away suddenly.
"Okay, well, I'll just be going now. Like I said, I'm sorry…for everything. Goodbye, Slayer."
Sorry. How could he be? He didn't have it in him. No soul, no "sorry". Still, he looked genuinely sad,
whether it was for himself, for her, for Mom…who knew? Who cared? Dru had said they could love. And
when Buffy really thought about it, she had to admit it seemed true. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered
now.
"'Bye, Spike. And let's make sure it's for the last time."
She was talking to his back. He'd already turned to leave. When the brightness of his hair had faded into
the night, Buffy took a deep breath. Knelt by her mother's grave. But she still couldn't cry. Strong Slayer.
Tough. Ready for anything—but not this. Never this. Training, studying, killing…to rescue the world from
evil, from monsters, demons, vamps. She'd saved countless strangers, but when it came down to it, she
hadn't been able to save this one woman. Hadn't seen it coming…and even if she had…she was helpless.
Powerless. Useless.
Part IV
He'd never seen her look this way. And Spike had witnessed the Slayer at some pretty low points, many
caused by him. But this was really the worst. Her eyes, so empty and so bleak. The look on her face
reminded him of that time a few months ago. He'd been mad with rage and humiliation, so ready to do the
deed, chip and everything else be damned. But seeing her expression bled him of all resolution. Her eyes
had looked bleak then, too, but also frightened in a way he'd never imagined possible. And he'd put the
rifle down and sat beside her. Awkwardly patted her back, desperately reaching back in William's
memories for a clue of the right thing to do. How to comfort someone when comforting was so completely
antithetical to everything he was. But he was compelled then, as now he was compelled to turn around and
go back to the gravesite. He didn't know if he could help. He might well get a stake in the heart for his
troubles. But he had to try. He approached slowly and saw her sitting crosslegged next to the grave, left
hand clenched in the fresh soil covering the coffin, right hand resting on the vibrant green turf between
tombstones. Not crying. Not moving. Barely breathing. Spike hesitated. It didn't seem right to interrupt her
reverie. But she didn't look "right"—not by a long shot, and there was no one else here to do anything
about it. He moved closer.
"Slayer?"
Part V
The news that truly shocks
Is the empy, empty page
While the final rattle rocks
It's empty, empty cage.
And I can't handle this—
I grieve…for you
You leave…me
*Here I am, Mommy I'm here…but where are you? Where are you?*
It was safe, now, wasn't it, to feel the pain? To allow some memories to press against her bruised heart?
And then she could let go. Then she could cry, and feel again. But something was holding her back. *What
are you? What use are you? Could save the world, but not the person who brought you into it. Now you'll
never see her again. Pathetic. You didn't deserve her.* An endless, swirling refrain of accusations
battering her brain. When would there be blessed silence? Never. Why did she deserve peace, when this
was the truth of her situation: she was the Slayer, and she could look evil in the eye, be so goddamn brave,
but she couldn't save her own flesh and blood. And where was her courage now? Six feet under. How long
would it be before everyone else she cared about followed? She couldn't save them all. Oh, but she could
kick a demon's ass. Dust a vamp without breaking a nail. And they just kept coming. So many to kill to
save so many…except for one. And the evil kept coming, and so did the death. Evil seemed to have an
interminable life of its own…while good lives were so very fragile—so incredibly short. No rest for the
wicked, and only the good die young. So what was her purpose here, really? She needed to hear it, but the
only person who could make her believe it was gone. And still the evil kept coming…
"Slayer?"
*See? That's exactly what I'm talking about…*
Part VI
"Spike. Why are you still here?" Her voice was an eerie monotone.
"Uh, yeah. I know I said I was leaving, but…"
Buffy slowly rose to her feet. "No, that's not what I'm asking. I don't just mean why are you still here now.
I'm asking why you're still here on this planet after what, one hundred twenty-six years? Why are you still
here in this plane of existence? Why the hell are you still here when Joyce Summers is gone?"
Spike saw where this was leading. He really should have expected it…only natural for the Slayer to be
asking herself these kinds of questions. And here he was, in the wrong place at the wrong bloody time—as
usual. Rhetorical questions about his cursed immortality. The stake would've been better.
"Look, Slay—Buffy, I just came back here to see how you were doing. I know I'm not welcome, and I
really don't have any answers for you. It was a mistake. I'll just go. I—I'm sorry."
As he turned to leave, he was suddenly swung around by a vise-like grip on his shoulder. Then he was
shoved up against the nearest, largest monument, a marble angel. Bumpy wings…ow. Her right hand was
locked around his throat. Her green eyes blazed with fury. But even that was better than the emptiness of
seconds earlier…
"You're not going anywhere, you bloodsucking bastard. Not until you explain to me why a creature—an
evil…thing—like you gets to roam this earth indefinitely while my mom can't even make it to her fiftieth
birthday. *You're* useless. You've got no purpose here, but she did. Nobody needs you, but she…she was
needed. Nobody loves you, but she was loved so very much. So tell me, why are you still here when my
mother is gone?"
Those last few words had been punctuated by punches. One to his throat, two more to his chest. The throat
shot rendered him speechless—not that he had anything meaningful to say. As he gasped through his
bruised windpipe, he watched her face undergo yet another change, crumpling in on itself in a mask of grief
and rage. He stared, rapt. His heart hurt, but not from her blows. He wanted to help, but what could he do?
He could run away before she beat the hell out of him or worse. But that's when he realized why he was
there…what he could do. He would straighten up and keep his mouth shut. He would listen, and he would
take it…take whatever she dished out. Because he was strong enough—physically and mentally. Stronger
than her sister, her friends. It didn't matter how it turned out in the end—whether she was grateful later, or
even remembered he'd been there. She needed him. He could do this—he would do this—for her.
Part VII
Let it out and move on
Missing what's gone.
Still, life carries on
Still life carries on and on and on
God, look at him, just standing there. For once in his stupid existence with no sarcastic remarks, arrogant
gestures. Just standing there, a constant reminder of life everlasting and the death beneath their feet.
Bastard. Monster. She should've brought a stake. But her fists would do for the moment. She pounded him,
not hearing her own sobs and screams, but other voices instead…
"Mommy, Mommy, look what I made for you!"
"Oh, it's beautiful, honey, thank you! Oh, my sweet girl!"
Burying her face in her mother's neck, inhaling her scent.
"Buffy Anne Summers…come in here this minute."
"Sorry Mommy. I know you said not to touch it. But it was so pretty…"
The potency of Mom's disapproval—Giles had nothing on her.
"I miss Dad."
"I know, honey. I know."
"I hate him."
"I know it's hard, Buffy, but don't let it poison you."
She never let anything or anyone drag her down. Always setting an example. Doing it all alone…it must
have been so difficult.
"Oh Buffy, you're so grown up."
*If only you knew, Mom. But you did, didn't you? You always did.*
"Dawn isn't mine, is she? …Look after her."
"Oh God, how can I do this? Mom, come back. You can't be gone, Mommy, please!"
She heard herself wailing now, and felt the pounding of her fists against…him. Yes, he was there, still as a
statue. Face cast in alabaster gazing down at her. He offered no words of comfort. No defense from her
physical or verbal assaults. He offered only himself…a solid presence. No judgements…just the strong
arms that held her up now, kept her from falling as her knees gave out. She clung to him. He supported her.
She needed him. He picked her up, cradling her gently. And she let him.
Part VIII
Life carries on in the people I meet
In everyone that's out on the street
In all the dogs and cats, in the flies and rats
In the rot and the rust, in the ashes and the dust
Life carries on and on and on and on
Spike had been witness to plenty of grief in his time. Had caused his share of it, too. Wails of terror and
despair, screams like songs surrounding him. Angelus, Dru, Darla, and William the Bloody—conducting
their chorus of death. There had been many who'd begged for their lives, and nearly as many who'd begged
for the lives of others. Those who were left behind always had it the worst. They were Angelus' favorites.
Spike usually just wanted to kill them quickly. They were noisy, and not very exiting—for him, anyway.
He could tell they wanted to die…and that took some of the fun out of it. But those days were long gone.
Even in the last few decades before the chip, his style had changed. It became more about a quick hunt and
a quicker kill. A heady rush, a hot meal, then back to the rest of his world. The human world. He couldn't
deny it had grown more and more fascinating to him. Particularly since her. Being in this town, on the
periphery of her life, her family, her friends…had affected him. He hated to admit it, but so many corporeal
things had become part of his routine. Long before the privilege of live prey had been taken away, he had
gotten into the habit of snacking on "their" food. He could barely taste it, but something about the act of
consuming it appealed to him. Of course, he'd always liked the music they made—it gave him a joy, a
release unrelated to violence or death. And he liked their voices. He even liked to hear them
laugh…sometimes more than hearing them cry. ..
He wished he could hear the Slayer's laughter now. Even if it was at his expense. Better than this horrible
keening. God, it was awful. Barely intelligible words broken apart by wracking sobs as her fists pounded
his chest, his ribs. There had been a couple of audible pops under the barrage of blows. Well it wouldn't be
the first time she'd cracked them. It hurt, but hell, if she really wanted to, she could be killing him right
now. She didn't want to, though—she just wanted to expel some of her pain, and she needed someone there
who could take it. So she wouldn't kill him—just use him. And he'd let her. It was surreal—how many
times had he wished, fantasized about seeing her this miserable? Yet the moment had finally arrived, and
these insane feelings from the last few months were ruining the whole experience. So that instead of
rejoicing in her pain, he felt it himself. It scared him, and he wanted to make it stop for both of them.
Spike noticed that the blows were gradually weakening, the sobs had slowed. She was gasping for air,
shuddering…but no longer crying out. He wondered if it would be safe to touch her, but the choice was
taken away as she sank toward the ground. He quickly caught her up in his arms. God, she was light as a
feather! So much power housed in a frame that felt delicate as a bird's. But birds were pretty tough, weren't
they? Still, she needed to rest now.
"That's it, Slayer. I'm taking you home." (And he'd better be careful about it; if the Scoobys saw them this
way, he'd be so much deader than he already was.)
Small hands clutched desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "No. Not there…not yet."
And then she went limp in his arms. What to do now? There weren't many choices, so he walked back
down the hill.
Same old crypt, except dustier. Well, it had only been a few weeks, after all, though it felt like years. He
sniffed the air, scanned the dim room. Nothing hiding or lurking. It was safe. And there was his good old
chair. Still holding Buffy, he sank into the creaky leather. Sitting in his crypt, the Slayer in his lap. It was
just too strange. But it was true. He let his arms hang limp, giving her the opportunity to escape. But she
didn't move away, only moved closer to him, still hanging on to his t-shirt. She was exhausted and sound
asleep. Spike shifted, removing his duster and trying to find a more comfortable position for his
complaining ribs. Buffy stirred, shivering. He momentarily regretted his lack of body heat, but he supposed
the jacket was better than nothing, and laid it over her. He inhaled the scent of her hair, encircled her in a
protective embrace and closed his eyes.
*Can't fall asleep, though. If she wakes up in your arms, she'll
panic and God-knows-what, Mate. Remember, this doesn't mean she loves you back. It probably doesn't
mean anything.*
Part IX
Just the car that we ride in
The home we reside in
The face that we hide in
The way we are tied in
Life carries on and on and on and on
Buffy had the vague sensation of being caught mid-fall. Strong arms were around her. Angel? No, this
embrace was different…equally solid, but…tentative. Then she heard his voice…the accent. Spike. She
should be furious right now. She should make him put her down…but she felt weak, and his arms—and
voice—were gentle. Comforting, even. She wasn't ready to go home, so she let him carry her. She trusted
him to bring her someplace safe. Trusting Spike? This was crazy, wasn't it? But it didn't feel crazy—it felt
completely natural. Anyway, she was too tired to think about it further. She laid her head against his chest,
silence where a heartbeat should be. She allowed the quiet to envelop her, and slipped away….
A humming growl awakened her. That, and an odor of smoke, leather, and…blood? Her eyes opened
slowly. They felt hot and gritty. Swollen from the salt of too many tears. She was curled up on
something…no…someone. That's where the sound was coming from. The growly hum emanated from the
sleeping vampire still holding her. She gazed up at Spike's face—a portrait of peaceful repose. Without a
trace of the usual cocky grin or menacing sneer, she could clearly see the perfect symmetry, the noble lines
and angles composing those infuriatingly handsome features. *Okay, enough with the staring.*
Bit by bit, Buffy recollected what had happened in the cemetery. Her rage, realization, the grief that finally
crashed down like a tidal wave. And his presence, through it all. Why had he stayed with her instead of
running away? She flexed a hand, noticing the rawness of her knuckles. She'd been using him as a
punching bag—couldn't have been much fun. Maybe he'd enjoyed watching her fall apart…no, that wasn't
it at all. Actually, in a moment of lucidity, hadn't she looked up at his face and seen tears? How could it
be, after all they'd done to each other, that he could provide something the people she loved could not?
That her worst enemy could get her through this? It was a lot to think about, and she really wasn't ready to
deal with it. But she had to accept the fact that he was changed after last night—and so was she. They were
different, and she'd have to learn how to handle it—and him—differently.
She couldn't order him to leave town again. She really wasn't sure what she'd say the next time they ran
into each other. Or what would happen if that chip ever…. No, it was a lot to think about, and she'd need
help working it out. The help that was waiting for her at home. They'd be worried, and they'd want to talk.
And now, finally, she was ready. Ready to give—and accept—comfort. And share her grief for Mom with
the people who loved her most.
Slowly, carefully, she got out from under his jacket and up from his lap. She placed the duster over him like
a blanket—not that he needed warmth—it was just an impulse. Like the impulse to trace a finger down his
cold, smooth cheek. The sun was rising, and Buffy was ready to go. She squeezed something into Spike's
hand, and left.
Did I dream this belief
Or did I believe this dream?
Now I will find relief
I grieve….
Part X
A shooting pain in his side woke Spike with a start. He'd been sleeping the sleep of the…well, of the dead.
Hadn't had any of the usual nightmares. And only one dream about the Slayer. It'd been weird, but not
horrible. They'd been in the cemetery by her mum's grave, and….No, wait—that was real. He had the
bloody broken ribs to prove it now, didn't he? Had she really allowed him to hold her…falling asleep with
him right here in this chair? Yeah, she'd been here. He could still smell the scent of her skin, her hair. He
was mildly surprised she hadn't woken him up to kick his ass for touching her. Maybe she'd thought about
it and realized that he was trying to help and didn't mean any harm. Maybe she appreciated what he'd done.
*Oh bloody hell, you stupid sod! Of course she still hates you—probably sneaked out of here at sunrise
completely embarrassed and trying to forget the whole sorry incident.*
He wished he could forget the feel of her in his arms…it would only end up featuring in more torturous
dreams of things he could never have. Well, step one to forgetting would be getting the hell out of Dodge.
He started to get up, and his duster fell to the floor. She'd put in on him like a blanket…cute.
*Nah, that's just where it wound up after she slithered, mortified, from your lap, poofter.*
Whatever. He felt pins and needles in his left hand, and stretched out his fingers. And a folded scrap of
paper fell to the floor. *What's this, then?* Spike picked up the paper and unfolded it. And read:
Spike,
Thank you.
Buffy
The sun was setting, and he was starving. Time for a visit to the butcher shop…some blood for the road.
Spike read the note again, folded it, and carefully placed it in the inside pocket of his duster. On second
thought, maybe he shouldn't travel tonight. Might be wiser to stay here in Sunnydale for a little while
longer. Just in case anyone needed him.
to return them when I'm finished.
Song lyrics from Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve."
Spoiler Alert: Some spoilery info for Season 5, through "The Body."
Part I
It was only one hour ago—
It was all so different then.
Nothing yet has really sunk in
Looks like it always did…
It had been the longest day of her life. And the night ahead was shaping up to be even longer. She had to
get out of the house. Too many memories, like restless ghosts, would keep her awake. She wondered if she
could ever sleep there again. She went to check on Dawn. Checking on Dawn, "being strong" for her,
putting on her big sister/tough Slayer act had gotten them both—hell, gotten the whole gang, pretty much—
through the past several days. She'd held it together pretty well, shedding a few tears that felt like nothing
at the funeral, the cemetery. Maybe her friends had expected something more…but if she'd totally broken
down, could they have handled it? They'd never seen her broken—really broken—although perhaps they
thought they had. Nothing before this, with Angel, with anyone, could compare. If she'd let herself go, how
would they have reacted? Giles, Willow, Xander—they were everything to her…everything she had
left…but that very fact kept her from letting them see this pain. Maybe they were too close to share it with.
It was like telling someone you'd just met a deep, dark secret even your best friend didn't know…safer
because you weren't giving too much away. When people think they know you, you can hurt them more,
scare them more…scare yourself.
She was numb. She knew she should let herself feel something, but now, here, it wouldn't be right. She'd
have to be alone, like before, to let it out. She couldn't allow it to overcome her in front of the others… in
front of her little sister. All those fabricated memories didn't contain anything like the pain Dawn had faced
over the last month. First finding out she was the Key. Now this. They were alone, together. But Buffy was
lonelier than she'd ever been. One third of her family was gone. And she didn't know how long she could
hold on to what remained. Oh, Mommy, why did you have to leave us why why why couldn't I have helped
you? I can't do this please Mommy, I'm afraid. I never had the chance to say goodbye. Can you hear me?
Can you? She had to get out. Willow and Tara were sleeping in Dawn's room; Giles in the spare bedroom;
Xander and Anya on the sofa. She'd told them they didn't have to stay, but they had wanted to, perhaps for
their own comfort as much as hers. And she was glad they were here for Dawn, because she had to leave
for awhile…*I'm coming Mommy to talk to you*….
Part II
This flesh and bone.
It's just the way that we are tied in
But there's no one home.
I grieve…for you
You leave…me…
He couldn't believe he was here again. After last time, he'd promised himself he'd never come back. But
the reasons now were different than before, than all those times before. He'd just do what he had to do and
leave—she'd never know. It was best for both of them…well, particularly for him. Why invite more hurt?
Then again, being here at all was painful enough, thank you. He walked past his old crypt. Apparently,
nobody had taken up residence since he'd left. Didn't matter either way—he wouldn't be around long
enough to need a place to crash. It was unusually quiet. A stroke of luck for Sunnydale that on the one night
there'd be no patrol, there wasn't much to patrol for. He trudged up the hill to the newer section of the
cemetery. There were quite a few fresh graves, but he found the one he was looking for right away. A
simple headstone, embellished only with a small design of three intertwining flowers. And the inscription:
Joyce Elizabeth Summers
1957-2001
Love you forever Mom
Your girls
What had it been like for them to lose her? He reached back one hundred-odd years. Memories from
William's life were so ephemeral, Spike was never sure which were true. There was a woman with gentle
eyes and a sad smile. Her scent of lilacs. And there was a boy, perhaps ten years old, and a little girl of four
or so. The woman was kind, he knew that much…he'd heard her voice in dreams, singing sometimes,
punctuated by the small girl's laughter. And then a vision of the woman crumpled at the bottom of the
stairs…not moving. And the large man who smelt of drink. He didn't know William was watching. No one
ever knew. The laughter never returned after that, or the singing. How did it feel? It felt empty…lonely…it
hurt. Well, it would hurt if he were mortal, had a soul. As certain people kept reminding him, vamps
couldn't feel these things—or anything, for that matter, except physical pain. They said the demon took
over everything, obliterating the person, the soul, the feelings that were there before. So what were these
sensations, then? Were they ghosts of William's passion and pain? The itching a one-legged man feels on
the knee that's long gone? Stupid, pointless pondering…waste of time trying to figure it out. Someone else
was hurting now…and knowing her, she was keeping it a big bloody secret from everyone who mattered—
and anyone who could help.
He knelt before the headstone and remembered gentle eyes. A sad smile. Hot cocoa…an axe to the head,
that first time. He chuckled softly. "I'm no expert on mothering, Joyce, but even I could see you did a
bang-up job. Your girls were lucky to have you. Hell, the whole bloody world was." He laid down the
bunch of yellow roses. He'd found them growing wild in an abandoned lot. Did they count as stolen?
Stolen, like so many other things he'd considered his own? He hoped not. Spike started getting to his feet.
It was time to go…and to never look back. And then he heard it. It had always betrayed her presence to
him. The steady beat that reminded him of blood, of breathing, of blistering mortal energy. He couldn't
escape now. She was too close. And so he waited….
Part III
So hard to move on
Still loving what's gone.
Still, life carries on
Carries on and on and on
He was the last thing she expected to see, yet she was too numb to feel shock, surprise…anything. Buffy
watched him lay some flowers by the grave—yellow roses—how did he know? He'd stopped moving
entirely, which probably meant he sensed her presence. There was no point trying to avoid him, so….
"Spike. You're here. Why?"
He turned, looking into her eyes, and deeper, it seemed, with that strange intensity. He sounded defensive.
"Not doing any harm, Slayer—just paying my respects. I…I'm sorry about Joyce. She was—well—she
was…forget it, you don't need to hear this from me…."
"What? Say it. Tell me."
"I was just thinking, she was just about the only person in my unlife I've never had the urge to kill. She was
really different to me, you know."
"Yeah, I…yeah." She knew, but couldn't bring herself to remember everything, anything, right now. She
vaguely hoped what he said was the truth—that he'd really only stopped to say goodbye to Mom. What if
he were here on some kind vengeance quest? Maybe he saw this as a chance to take advantage of her
weakened state. If that were his plan, it would work. She was unarmed, both physically and mentally. She
wouldn't be fighting anyone tonight. But she wouldn't be leaving here, either. Not yet.
Buffy focused once again on Spike. He'd been watching her face this entire time, never looking away. Why
did it feel like he was reading her? How could he be? He'd always given her that sense, all the more
infuriating because he was so often on the mark when he finally voiced his observations. How could a
soulless demon be such a skilled reader of souls? Or maybe it was only her soul that was visible to him. It
was this very thought that had nauseated her before—brought chills of revulsion and panic that made her
say those things. The things that drove him away, she'd thought, for good. She'd had to do it, for all their
sakes. He would never be anything but a time bomb set to explode when they least expected it. If that chip
ever came out…stopped functioning…. For all she knew, the time for detonation might be right now. Either
way, she couldn't seem to care.
Spike looked away suddenly.
"Okay, well, I'll just be going now. Like I said, I'm sorry…for everything. Goodbye, Slayer."
Sorry. How could he be? He didn't have it in him. No soul, no "sorry". Still, he looked genuinely sad,
whether it was for himself, for her, for Mom…who knew? Who cared? Dru had said they could love. And
when Buffy really thought about it, she had to admit it seemed true. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered
now.
"'Bye, Spike. And let's make sure it's for the last time."
She was talking to his back. He'd already turned to leave. When the brightness of his hair had faded into
the night, Buffy took a deep breath. Knelt by her mother's grave. But she still couldn't cry. Strong Slayer.
Tough. Ready for anything—but not this. Never this. Training, studying, killing…to rescue the world from
evil, from monsters, demons, vamps. She'd saved countless strangers, but when it came down to it, she
hadn't been able to save this one woman. Hadn't seen it coming…and even if she had…she was helpless.
Powerless. Useless.
Part IV
He'd never seen her look this way. And Spike had witnessed the Slayer at some pretty low points, many
caused by him. But this was really the worst. Her eyes, so empty and so bleak. The look on her face
reminded him of that time a few months ago. He'd been mad with rage and humiliation, so ready to do the
deed, chip and everything else be damned. But seeing her expression bled him of all resolution. Her eyes
had looked bleak then, too, but also frightened in a way he'd never imagined possible. And he'd put the
rifle down and sat beside her. Awkwardly patted her back, desperately reaching back in William's
memories for a clue of the right thing to do. How to comfort someone when comforting was so completely
antithetical to everything he was. But he was compelled then, as now he was compelled to turn around and
go back to the gravesite. He didn't know if he could help. He might well get a stake in the heart for his
troubles. But he had to try. He approached slowly and saw her sitting crosslegged next to the grave, left
hand clenched in the fresh soil covering the coffin, right hand resting on the vibrant green turf between
tombstones. Not crying. Not moving. Barely breathing. Spike hesitated. It didn't seem right to interrupt her
reverie. But she didn't look "right"—not by a long shot, and there was no one else here to do anything
about it. He moved closer.
"Slayer?"
Part V
The news that truly shocks
Is the empy, empty page
While the final rattle rocks
It's empty, empty cage.
And I can't handle this—
I grieve…for you
You leave…me
*Here I am, Mommy I'm here…but where are you? Where are you?*
It was safe, now, wasn't it, to feel the pain? To allow some memories to press against her bruised heart?
And then she could let go. Then she could cry, and feel again. But something was holding her back. *What
are you? What use are you? Could save the world, but not the person who brought you into it. Now you'll
never see her again. Pathetic. You didn't deserve her.* An endless, swirling refrain of accusations
battering her brain. When would there be blessed silence? Never. Why did she deserve peace, when this
was the truth of her situation: she was the Slayer, and she could look evil in the eye, be so goddamn brave,
but she couldn't save her own flesh and blood. And where was her courage now? Six feet under. How long
would it be before everyone else she cared about followed? She couldn't save them all. Oh, but she could
kick a demon's ass. Dust a vamp without breaking a nail. And they just kept coming. So many to kill to
save so many…except for one. And the evil kept coming, and so did the death. Evil seemed to have an
interminable life of its own…while good lives were so very fragile—so incredibly short. No rest for the
wicked, and only the good die young. So what was her purpose here, really? She needed to hear it, but the
only person who could make her believe it was gone. And still the evil kept coming…
"Slayer?"
*See? That's exactly what I'm talking about…*
Part VI
"Spike. Why are you still here?" Her voice was an eerie monotone.
"Uh, yeah. I know I said I was leaving, but…"
Buffy slowly rose to her feet. "No, that's not what I'm asking. I don't just mean why are you still here now.
I'm asking why you're still here on this planet after what, one hundred twenty-six years? Why are you still
here in this plane of existence? Why the hell are you still here when Joyce Summers is gone?"
Spike saw where this was leading. He really should have expected it…only natural for the Slayer to be
asking herself these kinds of questions. And here he was, in the wrong place at the wrong bloody time—as
usual. Rhetorical questions about his cursed immortality. The stake would've been better.
"Look, Slay—Buffy, I just came back here to see how you were doing. I know I'm not welcome, and I
really don't have any answers for you. It was a mistake. I'll just go. I—I'm sorry."
As he turned to leave, he was suddenly swung around by a vise-like grip on his shoulder. Then he was
shoved up against the nearest, largest monument, a marble angel. Bumpy wings…ow. Her right hand was
locked around his throat. Her green eyes blazed with fury. But even that was better than the emptiness of
seconds earlier…
"You're not going anywhere, you bloodsucking bastard. Not until you explain to me why a creature—an
evil…thing—like you gets to roam this earth indefinitely while my mom can't even make it to her fiftieth
birthday. *You're* useless. You've got no purpose here, but she did. Nobody needs you, but she…she was
needed. Nobody loves you, but she was loved so very much. So tell me, why are you still here when my
mother is gone?"
Those last few words had been punctuated by punches. One to his throat, two more to his chest. The throat
shot rendered him speechless—not that he had anything meaningful to say. As he gasped through his
bruised windpipe, he watched her face undergo yet another change, crumpling in on itself in a mask of grief
and rage. He stared, rapt. His heart hurt, but not from her blows. He wanted to help, but what could he do?
He could run away before she beat the hell out of him or worse. But that's when he realized why he was
there…what he could do. He would straighten up and keep his mouth shut. He would listen, and he would
take it…take whatever she dished out. Because he was strong enough—physically and mentally. Stronger
than her sister, her friends. It didn't matter how it turned out in the end—whether she was grateful later, or
even remembered he'd been there. She needed him. He could do this—he would do this—for her.
Part VII
Let it out and move on
Missing what's gone.
Still, life carries on
Still life carries on and on and on
God, look at him, just standing there. For once in his stupid existence with no sarcastic remarks, arrogant
gestures. Just standing there, a constant reminder of life everlasting and the death beneath their feet.
Bastard. Monster. She should've brought a stake. But her fists would do for the moment. She pounded him,
not hearing her own sobs and screams, but other voices instead…
"Mommy, Mommy, look what I made for you!"
"Oh, it's beautiful, honey, thank you! Oh, my sweet girl!"
Burying her face in her mother's neck, inhaling her scent.
"Buffy Anne Summers…come in here this minute."
"Sorry Mommy. I know you said not to touch it. But it was so pretty…"
The potency of Mom's disapproval—Giles had nothing on her.
"I miss Dad."
"I know, honey. I know."
"I hate him."
"I know it's hard, Buffy, but don't let it poison you."
She never let anything or anyone drag her down. Always setting an example. Doing it all alone…it must
have been so difficult.
"Oh Buffy, you're so grown up."
*If only you knew, Mom. But you did, didn't you? You always did.*
"Dawn isn't mine, is she? …Look after her."
"Oh God, how can I do this? Mom, come back. You can't be gone, Mommy, please!"
She heard herself wailing now, and felt the pounding of her fists against…him. Yes, he was there, still as a
statue. Face cast in alabaster gazing down at her. He offered no words of comfort. No defense from her
physical or verbal assaults. He offered only himself…a solid presence. No judgements…just the strong
arms that held her up now, kept her from falling as her knees gave out. She clung to him. He supported her.
She needed him. He picked her up, cradling her gently. And she let him.
Part VIII
Life carries on in the people I meet
In everyone that's out on the street
In all the dogs and cats, in the flies and rats
In the rot and the rust, in the ashes and the dust
Life carries on and on and on and on
Spike had been witness to plenty of grief in his time. Had caused his share of it, too. Wails of terror and
despair, screams like songs surrounding him. Angelus, Dru, Darla, and William the Bloody—conducting
their chorus of death. There had been many who'd begged for their lives, and nearly as many who'd begged
for the lives of others. Those who were left behind always had it the worst. They were Angelus' favorites.
Spike usually just wanted to kill them quickly. They were noisy, and not very exiting—for him, anyway.
He could tell they wanted to die…and that took some of the fun out of it. But those days were long gone.
Even in the last few decades before the chip, his style had changed. It became more about a quick hunt and
a quicker kill. A heady rush, a hot meal, then back to the rest of his world. The human world. He couldn't
deny it had grown more and more fascinating to him. Particularly since her. Being in this town, on the
periphery of her life, her family, her friends…had affected him. He hated to admit it, but so many corporeal
things had become part of his routine. Long before the privilege of live prey had been taken away, he had
gotten into the habit of snacking on "their" food. He could barely taste it, but something about the act of
consuming it appealed to him. Of course, he'd always liked the music they made—it gave him a joy, a
release unrelated to violence or death. And he liked their voices. He even liked to hear them
laugh…sometimes more than hearing them cry. ..
He wished he could hear the Slayer's laughter now. Even if it was at his expense. Better than this horrible
keening. God, it was awful. Barely intelligible words broken apart by wracking sobs as her fists pounded
his chest, his ribs. There had been a couple of audible pops under the barrage of blows. Well it wouldn't be
the first time she'd cracked them. It hurt, but hell, if she really wanted to, she could be killing him right
now. She didn't want to, though—she just wanted to expel some of her pain, and she needed someone there
who could take it. So she wouldn't kill him—just use him. And he'd let her. It was surreal—how many
times had he wished, fantasized about seeing her this miserable? Yet the moment had finally arrived, and
these insane feelings from the last few months were ruining the whole experience. So that instead of
rejoicing in her pain, he felt it himself. It scared him, and he wanted to make it stop for both of them.
Spike noticed that the blows were gradually weakening, the sobs had slowed. She was gasping for air,
shuddering…but no longer crying out. He wondered if it would be safe to touch her, but the choice was
taken away as she sank toward the ground. He quickly caught her up in his arms. God, she was light as a
feather! So much power housed in a frame that felt delicate as a bird's. But birds were pretty tough, weren't
they? Still, she needed to rest now.
"That's it, Slayer. I'm taking you home." (And he'd better be careful about it; if the Scoobys saw them this
way, he'd be so much deader than he already was.)
Small hands clutched desperately in the fabric of his shirt. "No. Not there…not yet."
And then she went limp in his arms. What to do now? There weren't many choices, so he walked back
down the hill.
Same old crypt, except dustier. Well, it had only been a few weeks, after all, though it felt like years. He
sniffed the air, scanned the dim room. Nothing hiding or lurking. It was safe. And there was his good old
chair. Still holding Buffy, he sank into the creaky leather. Sitting in his crypt, the Slayer in his lap. It was
just too strange. But it was true. He let his arms hang limp, giving her the opportunity to escape. But she
didn't move away, only moved closer to him, still hanging on to his t-shirt. She was exhausted and sound
asleep. Spike shifted, removing his duster and trying to find a more comfortable position for his
complaining ribs. Buffy stirred, shivering. He momentarily regretted his lack of body heat, but he supposed
the jacket was better than nothing, and laid it over her. He inhaled the scent of her hair, encircled her in a
protective embrace and closed his eyes.
*Can't fall asleep, though. If she wakes up in your arms, she'll
panic and God-knows-what, Mate. Remember, this doesn't mean she loves you back. It probably doesn't
mean anything.*
Part IX
Just the car that we ride in
The home we reside in
The face that we hide in
The way we are tied in
Life carries on and on and on and on
Buffy had the vague sensation of being caught mid-fall. Strong arms were around her. Angel? No, this
embrace was different…equally solid, but…tentative. Then she heard his voice…the accent. Spike. She
should be furious right now. She should make him put her down…but she felt weak, and his arms—and
voice—were gentle. Comforting, even. She wasn't ready to go home, so she let him carry her. She trusted
him to bring her someplace safe. Trusting Spike? This was crazy, wasn't it? But it didn't feel crazy—it felt
completely natural. Anyway, she was too tired to think about it further. She laid her head against his chest,
silence where a heartbeat should be. She allowed the quiet to envelop her, and slipped away….
A humming growl awakened her. That, and an odor of smoke, leather, and…blood? Her eyes opened
slowly. They felt hot and gritty. Swollen from the salt of too many tears. She was curled up on
something…no…someone. That's where the sound was coming from. The growly hum emanated from the
sleeping vampire still holding her. She gazed up at Spike's face—a portrait of peaceful repose. Without a
trace of the usual cocky grin or menacing sneer, she could clearly see the perfect symmetry, the noble lines
and angles composing those infuriatingly handsome features. *Okay, enough with the staring.*
Bit by bit, Buffy recollected what had happened in the cemetery. Her rage, realization, the grief that finally
crashed down like a tidal wave. And his presence, through it all. Why had he stayed with her instead of
running away? She flexed a hand, noticing the rawness of her knuckles. She'd been using him as a
punching bag—couldn't have been much fun. Maybe he'd enjoyed watching her fall apart…no, that wasn't
it at all. Actually, in a moment of lucidity, hadn't she looked up at his face and seen tears? How could it
be, after all they'd done to each other, that he could provide something the people she loved could not?
That her worst enemy could get her through this? It was a lot to think about, and she really wasn't ready to
deal with it. But she had to accept the fact that he was changed after last night—and so was she. They were
different, and she'd have to learn how to handle it—and him—differently.
She couldn't order him to leave town again. She really wasn't sure what she'd say the next time they ran
into each other. Or what would happen if that chip ever…. No, it was a lot to think about, and she'd need
help working it out. The help that was waiting for her at home. They'd be worried, and they'd want to talk.
And now, finally, she was ready. Ready to give—and accept—comfort. And share her grief for Mom with
the people who loved her most.
Slowly, carefully, she got out from under his jacket and up from his lap. She placed the duster over him like
a blanket—not that he needed warmth—it was just an impulse. Like the impulse to trace a finger down his
cold, smooth cheek. The sun was rising, and Buffy was ready to go. She squeezed something into Spike's
hand, and left.
Did I dream this belief
Or did I believe this dream?
Now I will find relief
I grieve….
Part X
A shooting pain in his side woke Spike with a start. He'd been sleeping the sleep of the…well, of the dead.
Hadn't had any of the usual nightmares. And only one dream about the Slayer. It'd been weird, but not
horrible. They'd been in the cemetery by her mum's grave, and….No, wait—that was real. He had the
bloody broken ribs to prove it now, didn't he? Had she really allowed him to hold her…falling asleep with
him right here in this chair? Yeah, she'd been here. He could still smell the scent of her skin, her hair. He
was mildly surprised she hadn't woken him up to kick his ass for touching her. Maybe she'd thought about
it and realized that he was trying to help and didn't mean any harm. Maybe she appreciated what he'd done.
*Oh bloody hell, you stupid sod! Of course she still hates you—probably sneaked out of here at sunrise
completely embarrassed and trying to forget the whole sorry incident.*
He wished he could forget the feel of her in his arms…it would only end up featuring in more torturous
dreams of things he could never have. Well, step one to forgetting would be getting the hell out of Dodge.
He started to get up, and his duster fell to the floor. She'd put in on him like a blanket…cute.
*Nah, that's just where it wound up after she slithered, mortified, from your lap, poofter.*
Whatever. He felt pins and needles in his left hand, and stretched out his fingers. And a folded scrap of
paper fell to the floor. *What's this, then?* Spike picked up the paper and unfolded it. And read:
Spike,
Thank you.
Buffy
The sun was setting, and he was starving. Time for a visit to the butcher shop…some blood for the road.
Spike read the note again, folded it, and carefully placed it in the inside pocket of his duster. On second
thought, maybe he shouldn't travel tonight. Might be wiser to stay here in Sunnydale for a little while
longer. Just in case anyone needed him.