---
part nine
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"Hey," she said simply. The dawn light was flowing in soft blue shafts through the curtains. The room was ethereal in the early morning blueness. The smell of mist through the open window, the sound of early birds all promised a bright and warm day to follow.
He didn't respond, simply sat in the corner, away from the light. She drew the curtains, and the diffused light made patterns on her face.
He turned away from her, winced. He was no longer bleeding, and Dawn had helped him clean his wounds. But the damage remained.
"It's ok..." she said, crouching beside him. She felt a strange affection for him then, her heart moved with it as she looked at the tears in his eyes, the bruises spreading from the gashes on his back, the side of his face. He stared at the repeating patterns of the wallpaper. She stared with him. And there was quiet for a time.
"It's strange," he whispered at length, "But for everything, I wish I could survive this, exist here. Even-- even if it isn't real, even if it's an illusion."
"Well, maybe it's not an illusion-- not if you felt it like it was real, experienced it all with me and Dawn and Xander. It's terrible you didn't get a choice... I understand."
He shook his head slightly, inclined it to her. His voice shook as he spoke.
"I was covered in blood. I can understand why he ran from it, created me. I'm a killer, and even as I stand, I'm still a killer... I can't tell you what it was like..."
She swallowed, sat a moment, unsure if she should speak.
"That's ok... you're like me," she said. It hadn't seemed real until she said it, she hadn't believed it until it filled the air around her in her voice.
He looked at her, the soft blue light around her, playing through her hair in delicate patterns.
"I'm a killer, too-- just like you are. But that isn't all I am. It's what I do with that strength, with that instinct-- that's what matters. And it matters what I do with the rest, the part that doesn't know how to kill."
She felt tears at the corners of her own eyes as she continued.
"We're alike-- just alike. And it's ok." She reached out and brushed a stubborn curl back behind his ear.
"Buffy," he said, "I can feel it, it's hard to describe, but I can. I'm changing, soon I'll be gone."
"I know," she said softly, "I'll remember... it's ok."
Suddenly he cocked his head to the side, looked at her a moment straight in the face.
"Buffy... we buried you, didn't we?" he said, surprised, remembering.
"Yeah... you did."
And he dropped his eyes again.
She looked at him intensely, his hands, his shoulders. The line of his jaw. She felt pity, yes, but also a warm affection, a physical connection with the body he inhabited. He didn't know about that, and yet still that connection remained. A tear ran down her face unheeded.
It was time she left him, to fade away in peace. She knew Spike would want it that way. He wouldn't want to wake up and have to face her.
Before she stood, she leaned close to him and kissed him tenderly.
And then she rose to leave, turned, walked halfway to the door.
"Buffy," he said, his eyes wide and earnest, "I would follow you until the end of the world."
She swallowed, remembered his promise on the stairs, long ago, when everything seemed lost.
"I know," she said simply, and left him alone, a soft breeze blowing through the curtains.
Sometime after that, he must have slipped out of the house quietly. He was gone when she returned.
---
part nine
---
"Hey," she said simply. The dawn light was flowing in soft blue shafts through the curtains. The room was ethereal in the early morning blueness. The smell of mist through the open window, the sound of early birds all promised a bright and warm day to follow.
He didn't respond, simply sat in the corner, away from the light. She drew the curtains, and the diffused light made patterns on her face.
He turned away from her, winced. He was no longer bleeding, and Dawn had helped him clean his wounds. But the damage remained.
"It's ok..." she said, crouching beside him. She felt a strange affection for him then, her heart moved with it as she looked at the tears in his eyes, the bruises spreading from the gashes on his back, the side of his face. He stared at the repeating patterns of the wallpaper. She stared with him. And there was quiet for a time.
"It's strange," he whispered at length, "But for everything, I wish I could survive this, exist here. Even-- even if it isn't real, even if it's an illusion."
"Well, maybe it's not an illusion-- not if you felt it like it was real, experienced it all with me and Dawn and Xander. It's terrible you didn't get a choice... I understand."
He shook his head slightly, inclined it to her. His voice shook as he spoke.
"I was covered in blood. I can understand why he ran from it, created me. I'm a killer, and even as I stand, I'm still a killer... I can't tell you what it was like..."
She swallowed, sat a moment, unsure if she should speak.
"That's ok... you're like me," she said. It hadn't seemed real until she said it, she hadn't believed it until it filled the air around her in her voice.
He looked at her, the soft blue light around her, playing through her hair in delicate patterns.
"I'm a killer, too-- just like you are. But that isn't all I am. It's what I do with that strength, with that instinct-- that's what matters. And it matters what I do with the rest, the part that doesn't know how to kill."
She felt tears at the corners of her own eyes as she continued.
"We're alike-- just alike. And it's ok." She reached out and brushed a stubborn curl back behind his ear.
"Buffy," he said, "I can feel it, it's hard to describe, but I can. I'm changing, soon I'll be gone."
"I know," she said softly, "I'll remember... it's ok."
Suddenly he cocked his head to the side, looked at her a moment straight in the face.
"Buffy... we buried you, didn't we?" he said, surprised, remembering.
"Yeah... you did."
And he dropped his eyes again.
She looked at him intensely, his hands, his shoulders. The line of his jaw. She felt pity, yes, but also a warm affection, a physical connection with the body he inhabited. He didn't know about that, and yet still that connection remained. A tear ran down her face unheeded.
It was time she left him, to fade away in peace. She knew Spike would want it that way. He wouldn't want to wake up and have to face her.
Before she stood, she leaned close to him and kissed him tenderly.
And then she rose to leave, turned, walked halfway to the door.
"Buffy," he said, his eyes wide and earnest, "I would follow you until the end of the world."
She swallowed, remembered his promise on the stairs, long ago, when everything seemed lost.
"I know," she said simply, and left him alone, a soft breeze blowing through the curtains.
Sometime after that, he must have slipped out of the house quietly. He was gone when she returned.
---
