---
part eight
---
He sat again on the floor of the bedroom. It was nearing dawn. He turned to look out, through the curtains, where the sky was growing bluer. The window was open, and he could smell gardenias on the wind. He winced in pain. But the physical hurt simply served as a distraction to the thoughts and memories flowing through him. Bloodlust in Spike's past, its infinite instances, and the desperate moment he had experienced it in himself.
Gardenias. They were round and white, like snow. He had always dreamt of snow. White, pervasive. They both had. He could remember it.
---
Buffy sat at the kitchen table, exhausted in mind and spirit. They hadn't gone far in the tunnels before Dawn and William met them. She was supporting his weight, her clothes matted with blood from his wounds. Her eyes were very tired.
And he-- he stared through her, away from her. He still avoided contact with her eyes, but now it seemed not wrought from nervousness, but a shamed despair.
Poor William.
It was later, on the way home, when he almost fell, that she began to understand. Xander had caught him, and had been helping him walk. He had said something, at first she thought it was a delusion.
"He's coming back, I can tell..." he whispered softly, "My time is running out."
Xander stood next to her in the kitchen. He was putting on his coat, watching her reverie.
"He doesn't even get to live three days," she whispered.
"I know," said Xander quietly.
"I failed everyone tonight. He shouldn't have had to face that."
"He took care of himself pretty well."
"Yeah, but if I only had three days, I don't think I'd want to have faced the questions he has to be thinking of up there," she said, gesturing to the ceiling, and the bedroom above it.
Xander turned, touched her shoulder, "But it's what he had. Sure, it sucked. But it was what he had."
They were silent a moment, and then Xander continued.
"And sometimes, sometimes that's just the way things are. Maybe we'll never know why. And that's all there is."
She nodded. He began to walk away. But then he came back, and hugged her warmly. She clung to her friend a moment, a lump forming in her throat.
"I was wrong," he said, "That's not all there is. Don't give up, Buff."
And he walked out, the screen door clattering behind him.
---
Buffy climbed the stairs slowly. She didn't know what to say to him, but didn't want him to fade away without talking with him one last time.
She met Dawn at the top of the stairs, where she had been watching him through the door. She closed it gently, and turned to her sister. There were tears in her eyes.
"He seems lost," she said, "Like all he can feel is pain-- because-- well, this isn't where he belongs, or the way he should exist."
"But that's the way things are," Buffy said sadly, remember her past, "You can't change the things that others choose for you."
"It just doesn't seem fair," Dawn said. She couldn't control them, and her throat closed, and the tears ran down her face, the sad thrill of sobs rising in her chest. For some reason, she remembered all the nights she'd waited for her sister, hoping she'd come home alive.
"It's not fair," Buffy said gently. Dawn clung to her.
"I love you," she said simply, "And I'm sorry for all that's happened."
Buffy held her sister a moment, a wave of calm running through her. She brushed the hair from Dawn's face, smiled at her softly.
"Go to bed for now, Dawn. I'll be here in the morning."
And she opened the door to her dead mother's room, and went in to talk to him.
---
part eight
---
He sat again on the floor of the bedroom. It was nearing dawn. He turned to look out, through the curtains, where the sky was growing bluer. The window was open, and he could smell gardenias on the wind. He winced in pain. But the physical hurt simply served as a distraction to the thoughts and memories flowing through him. Bloodlust in Spike's past, its infinite instances, and the desperate moment he had experienced it in himself.
Gardenias. They were round and white, like snow. He had always dreamt of snow. White, pervasive. They both had. He could remember it.
---
Buffy sat at the kitchen table, exhausted in mind and spirit. They hadn't gone far in the tunnels before Dawn and William met them. She was supporting his weight, her clothes matted with blood from his wounds. Her eyes were very tired.
And he-- he stared through her, away from her. He still avoided contact with her eyes, but now it seemed not wrought from nervousness, but a shamed despair.
Poor William.
It was later, on the way home, when he almost fell, that she began to understand. Xander had caught him, and had been helping him walk. He had said something, at first she thought it was a delusion.
"He's coming back, I can tell..." he whispered softly, "My time is running out."
Xander stood next to her in the kitchen. He was putting on his coat, watching her reverie.
"He doesn't even get to live three days," she whispered.
"I know," said Xander quietly.
"I failed everyone tonight. He shouldn't have had to face that."
"He took care of himself pretty well."
"Yeah, but if I only had three days, I don't think I'd want to have faced the questions he has to be thinking of up there," she said, gesturing to the ceiling, and the bedroom above it.
Xander turned, touched her shoulder, "But it's what he had. Sure, it sucked. But it was what he had."
They were silent a moment, and then Xander continued.
"And sometimes, sometimes that's just the way things are. Maybe we'll never know why. And that's all there is."
She nodded. He began to walk away. But then he came back, and hugged her warmly. She clung to her friend a moment, a lump forming in her throat.
"I was wrong," he said, "That's not all there is. Don't give up, Buff."
And he walked out, the screen door clattering behind him.
---
Buffy climbed the stairs slowly. She didn't know what to say to him, but didn't want him to fade away without talking with him one last time.
She met Dawn at the top of the stairs, where she had been watching him through the door. She closed it gently, and turned to her sister. There were tears in her eyes.
"He seems lost," she said, "Like all he can feel is pain-- because-- well, this isn't where he belongs, or the way he should exist."
"But that's the way things are," Buffy said sadly, remember her past, "You can't change the things that others choose for you."
"It just doesn't seem fair," Dawn said. She couldn't control them, and her throat closed, and the tears ran down her face, the sad thrill of sobs rising in her chest. For some reason, she remembered all the nights she'd waited for her sister, hoping she'd come home alive.
"It's not fair," Buffy said gently. Dawn clung to her.
"I love you," she said simply, "And I'm sorry for all that's happened."
Buffy held her sister a moment, a wave of calm running through her. She brushed the hair from Dawn's face, smiled at her softly.
"Go to bed for now, Dawn. I'll be here in the morning."
And she opened the door to her dead mother's room, and went in to talk to him.
---
