---
part three
---
Xander had taken Dawn home hours ago, and Buffy had stayed with what was left of Spike. She felt responsible for him somehow, felt a strange lump of pity in her throat when she looked into his face.
Poor William.
He'd died young. She knew what it was like to be pulled into a place she didn't belong, against her will... she couldn't wish that on this man who seemed innocent of anything but an interest in old languages.
She had kept her distance from him. As soon as he began working he was absorbed. She'd also noticed whenever she looked at him too closely he'd drop his eyes to the ground. Strange.
Xander had wanted her to sleep, but she could not sleep. And she needed much less than he or Dawn realized. Even with the strength of the Slayer in her, her friends often saw her as fragile, a thing to be protected. In recent months, she'd felt fragile herself, like she could shatter in an instant and be lost.
She had stayed away from the unlikely scholar, going to the workout room and losing herself in her training. But still the strange feeling of agitation filled her. Things were changing. What happened to Spike, she knew-- she knew in a way the others did not-- that it was of pivotal importance.
Spike. She needed to take care of him now. Funny, that.
When she had reached for his wrist, to take his pulse and see if he were alive, he had jumped and nearly knocked his book from the table. This was not a man used to being touched.
And there had been no pulse. So, as afternoon turned to midday, she had gone out to get him what he needed.
---
"William," she said gently, as she opened the door again. She had returned with a parcel, had gone into the work room with it, and come out again. He looked up from his work, and stood to greet her.
"Buffy."
"I. . . have something for you," she said, uncertain of what how he would react.
She placed the glass of blood on the table.
"You know what--who you are," she said, "You need this to live."
He stared at it. The reality of his new life sat before him, dark and red.
She sat in the chair beside him, and he sank into his own seat.
He was rapping his pen against the edge of his notebook unconsciously. The hand... she remembered how he'd touched her then, with such passionate urgency. Once. It seemed so long ago. And he couldn't remember.
And now that hand so nervously tapped, and the mind-- the presence behind the movement, who was it before her? That which was there once was there no longer. She felt a strange ache of sadness at the thought.
"I... I'm having trouble with the translation. It appears to be in code," he said, "It... it could be a while longer before we'll know how I came to be."
"It doesn't matter," Buffy whispered kindly. Again, she noticed he couldn't hold his gaze on her for very long. He'd always look away.
"I can remember some things now," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "I can remember sitting by the river in the countryside. There were swans, in the summers. My sister and I-- we used to play in the ruined abbey there."
He was silent a moment, and she tried to imagine the scene he'd painted for her. Her thoughts mirrored his words when he continued.
"How can we come to this from there?"
"I don't know..."
"I should continue my work," he said, leaving the glass untouched. He looked down on the old manuscript, and to the notebook that mapped the unattainable strains of its cryptic logic.
---
part three
---
Xander had taken Dawn home hours ago, and Buffy had stayed with what was left of Spike. She felt responsible for him somehow, felt a strange lump of pity in her throat when she looked into his face.
Poor William.
He'd died young. She knew what it was like to be pulled into a place she didn't belong, against her will... she couldn't wish that on this man who seemed innocent of anything but an interest in old languages.
She had kept her distance from him. As soon as he began working he was absorbed. She'd also noticed whenever she looked at him too closely he'd drop his eyes to the ground. Strange.
Xander had wanted her to sleep, but she could not sleep. And she needed much less than he or Dawn realized. Even with the strength of the Slayer in her, her friends often saw her as fragile, a thing to be protected. In recent months, she'd felt fragile herself, like she could shatter in an instant and be lost.
She had stayed away from the unlikely scholar, going to the workout room and losing herself in her training. But still the strange feeling of agitation filled her. Things were changing. What happened to Spike, she knew-- she knew in a way the others did not-- that it was of pivotal importance.
Spike. She needed to take care of him now. Funny, that.
When she had reached for his wrist, to take his pulse and see if he were alive, he had jumped and nearly knocked his book from the table. This was not a man used to being touched.
And there had been no pulse. So, as afternoon turned to midday, she had gone out to get him what he needed.
---
"William," she said gently, as she opened the door again. She had returned with a parcel, had gone into the work room with it, and come out again. He looked up from his work, and stood to greet her.
"Buffy."
"I. . . have something for you," she said, uncertain of what how he would react.
She placed the glass of blood on the table.
"You know what--who you are," she said, "You need this to live."
He stared at it. The reality of his new life sat before him, dark and red.
She sat in the chair beside him, and he sank into his own seat.
He was rapping his pen against the edge of his notebook unconsciously. The hand... she remembered how he'd touched her then, with such passionate urgency. Once. It seemed so long ago. And he couldn't remember.
And now that hand so nervously tapped, and the mind-- the presence behind the movement, who was it before her? That which was there once was there no longer. She felt a strange ache of sadness at the thought.
"I... I'm having trouble with the translation. It appears to be in code," he said, "It... it could be a while longer before we'll know how I came to be."
"It doesn't matter," Buffy whispered kindly. Again, she noticed he couldn't hold his gaze on her for very long. He'd always look away.
"I can remember some things now," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "I can remember sitting by the river in the countryside. There were swans, in the summers. My sister and I-- we used to play in the ruined abbey there."
He was silent a moment, and she tried to imagine the scene he'd painted for her. Her thoughts mirrored his words when he continued.
"How can we come to this from there?"
"I don't know..."
"I should continue my work," he said, leaving the glass untouched. He looked down on the old manuscript, and to the notebook that mapped the unattainable strains of its cryptic logic.
---
