--- Part Ten ---

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"With thee conversing I forget all Time." --Milton ---

Buffy woke from a light sleep.

She rolled onto her side, her blanket falling softly from her back. It was slightly stiff from sleeping in a strange position. The coolness of the air sunk into her skin. She stared at the wall, the dim light falling on it, slightly luminous in the predawn glow. The first birds had just started calling, and she could hear them outside. The quiet serenity of their songs calmed her heart.

The fresh air rolled in with the wind, tinted with that particular soft, dewy coolness the early morning brings. Calm and silent, yet electrically charged, full of a strange life, full of contemplation and solitude and comfort.

Buffy's heart was at peace with the morning, and the coolness that worked into her bones from around her energized and soothed her at the same time. So she simply laid there, and let the growing light roll over her, and thought about everything that had brought her to this moment, and this place.

She breathed in that perfumed, morning air, and let memory move over her like a tender hand.

---

It had been a few weeks, she remembered, since that night. Since she'd been taken, and since she had run through her broken front door to see him sitting on a chair, her sister cradled in his arms. She had been crying softly against his shoulder. Buffy had just returned from her own searches, fruitless. She had gone back to collect some prudent weapons and look for more evidence. The rationality involved hardly occurred to her at the time... she was lost in action, desperate and frightened and enraged.

The look on his face, as he sat there, had been like nothing she had seen before. At the time, she hardly cared. It was with frantic relief, a relief that jolted her heart like a gunshot, that she reached for Dawn. And he had simply placed her gently in Buffy's arms, and walked away without a word. And she knew he'd disappear after that, and wasn't sure if she would have cared if he ever came back.

But she'd said that before. It never worked out that way.

And so when, one night, as she hunted prey in the cemeteries, she happened to come upon him, it did not surprise her.

She caught him by surprise, though, she knew. He had tried to slip away undetected. When confronted with each other, the particular way he tensed his shoulders communicated his discomfort. He froze as only the dead can freeze. No movement, no breath. He froze completely where he stood, staring away from her. She studied his profile in silence.

He was troubled by all that had happened. She'd become better at reading him since he'd come back, but this was obvious in every facet of his expression. His eyes looked tired and distant. Worn. He had been thinking, she was sure, of little else in his solitude.

But something about the set of his jaw, about the way he stood there, quietly, made her feel that he had found some sort of resolution, some sort of peace in it all, even if that same resolution left him isolated, alone. He had found some indeterminate, ineffable part of his own spirit that had previously confounded his understanding.

He was himself, now, and more than himself.

He turned to go. When she tried to talk, she wasn't sure if she could summon the breath to form her words. It was like a dream, in which she would try to call out, only to find her voice had gone dry and dead.

But the words came, faint and thin at first. But they came.

"She wouldn't just have gone," she said, "Not without what she wanted... she wouldn't have gone away unless--"

He paused, and then looked up at her. A slightly bitter look passed over his face, which seemed to dissolve itself into a faint, irresolute resignment.

"Unless someone made her," she continued.

Buffy wondered, vaguely, what making her gone would have entailed, before it was over. Torture before death, perhaps, and in expert hands. He broke the silence with a clipped sentence.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," he said, as he turned and walked off into the night.

---

Her life had fallen back into its normal patterns, as it invariably, inexorably did.

As she pulled her blanket up around her shoulders in that dim morning light, she thought about how subtle it had been. Dawn recovered quickly. No permanent injury, but one arm still needed that ever familiar sling. Other threats had come and gone. Most too boring for words. The vines covering the house had somehow faded away, but no one had noticed exactly when, or how.

Her mother died, and things returned to normal so fast. Even if the pain still haunted her like a dream you can't shake when you wake up. She died herself, and rose again, and even then she did not curl up, lose herself in her thoughts, and forget the world outside her skull forever. Somehow, she floated about her life, and things became whatever passed for normal. Again, only the dream remained.

So normal happened very quickly now.

And so, only the night before, she had been sitting in the Bronze with her friends. And Dawn was dancing with Xander. He was throwing her back and forth to a swing beat. It would have seemed violent if its exuberance weren't so glaring. Anya was somewhere nearby, shaping her fingernails. And Buffy sat and watched, and missed him.

She shook her head, tried to concentrate on the music. But the ghost of memories clung to her, and she didn't know how to resolve them. She lost herself in thought for a long time.

Suddenly, she sensed a familiar presence behind her, a large, warm hand fell gently to her shoulder. She looked up, and saw Xander there. His face was atypically grave. His eyes, though-- they had calmed so much since the previous spring. They were gentle as they looked at her.

"You should forgive him," Xander said. He sat down beside her.

She looked at him a second, as if she could not process his words. A few moments passed, and she responded.

"I should what?"

"Forgive him. Spike," he said again. He gesticulated in a strange fashion unique to himself, as if trying to communicate his thoughts in the motion of his hands. She just stared at him, confused, surprised, and slightly defensive.

"Hey," he continued, "Buffy. You know I don't like him. And you probably know, 'don't like' really isn't the phrase for it I came up with in my head. And I reserve the right to rag on him in the future at my own discretion... but you really should."

She remembered how Xander had hated him more than anyone else. Except sometimes... sometimes he would say something, extend some sort of understanding and empathy towards the creature. Even years ago. Heartfelt Xander. Sometimes a heart can learn cruelty. But kindness is its nature.

"And why is that, Xander?" Her voice was dry, and posed to sound aggressive. She didn't know what he was trying to do, and wasn't much in the mood to be played with. Or ministered to.

Even so, a thrill of warm pain glowed in her stomach, spreading up her chest and through the veins of her arms. No one had talked about him since, and it was strange to hear his name. Dull sadness, bare anger, and a sense of vague, almost gentle nostalgia passed over her as he continued to speak. The contradictory emotions tore at her.

"Because, well... because of what he did. I wasn't expecting it... if I had been, I don't think I would have let it get to me, but it snuck in on me and it did. And I can't deny it Buffy-- he didn't do these things out of some disinterested pursuit of Evil."

"I know that," Buffy said, "It's not like he woke up with a checklist... but how can I trust him? He did this out of something... something emotional that pulled him wrong. He always gets pulled wrong. Love I guess-- I don't know..."

"Mercy," Xander said, "Compassion. He knew her, I mean really knew her. He saw her like a person, Buff-- he knows everything about her. Little things. He couldn't choose to let her suffer, because to him, she was like a person."

"How is that supposed to make me feel better?" Buffy asked, "How does that make any of this ok?"

"No, not ok. Thus the forgiving part."

Buffy looked intently into her friend's face, trying to read what sort of intentions there were. But there was nothing... nothing there but an earnest sort of tenderness. It made her uncomfortable, cut a hole deep in her shell.

"But you see Buff, to him she was a person. And that means he was acting like a person, too. A real person, Buffy... not evil, not hurtful. Acting like an actual human-being-like person. Merciful. Self sacrificing... he was willing to give up everything just for compassion. And I couldn't feel more weird saying it Buffy, but I can see this eating at you. And damn it, I love you and I don't want that... and I see it. I really see it. As soon as I thought about it and realized what it was, I couldn't deny it because it's true. Imagine how annoyed that made me. But it was mercy, Buffy. Mercy."

She remembered being showered with water from the mall sprinklers, years ago, kicking a shadowed figure brutally and coolly walking away. And then what followed, what he did-- what she was responsible for from that momentary inability to harm him. There was no mercy in her actions, then. Just attachment.

The music shifted, a new melody floating through the smoke-filled, misty air.

Buffy didn't realize her eyes had watered until her hand was already brushing the moisture away. Xander took her hand and squeezed briefly. Then Dawn and Anya bounded over, carrying drinks with bright umbrellas in them, discussing with some conviction the importance of unnaturally bright coloring to the commercial success of any beverage.

---

Buffy went to breathe in the quiet of the alleyway. She felt like someone had torn a hole in her gut and all of her emotion had poured out of the wound. She leaned against the rough brick wall, and let her head drop to her hands.

She inhaled, taking in the slightly raw air. The darkness was empty, spare. She pressed her fingers against her temples, the wind nipping at them as it flowed past. The ground was dirty asphalt. Dead leaves mixed with broken glass, stray paper, and familiar dust. A single crate sat alone beside the service entrance. The lonely scene looked like a minimalist painting. She sank onto the crate, and inhaled again.

The sensation of his presence went through her like an electrical charge.

She smelled the familiar smoke and leather and the slightly sweet, faint musk. Her hands paused where they rested on her temples, and then she slowly pulled them away. They fell to her lap, and she looked up at him.

He stood there, a distance away, partially hidden in the shadow that fell across the alley. It divided him in half.

His hands were at his sides, and he stood facing her. He was starting straight into her eyes, and he nodded, slightly, as if assenting to her gaze. As if asking her to do something.

He laid himself bare. She could see everything he was feeling in his eyes. And it was then she realized he was offering himself to her, completely. Just as he stood. The gesture gave him a strange sort of strength. By giving everything up, away, and to her in that moment, he had somehow found the strength to accept it if she rejected him. Even then, she was certain, he would have some kind of peace.

And she simply watched him as he stood there, his fingers trembling slightly. The bitter wind rose up again, in a heavy swell, and played with their hair, and some random flyer flew up from the tired ground, and caught itself on his leg before it soared into the shadows.

Buffy stood, unsure of what she should do. She needed to look at him. Really see him close. So she rose, and walked slowly up to him. He watched her come, but did not move. He simply followed her with those strangely youthful eyes.

She leaned in very close, studying his face. He was trembling faintly under her stare.

And she watched him, and thought. She was uncertain. She searched his face as if she could read an answer there. A cold little snake of apprehension moved in her throat, with fitful irresolution.

She decided not to hold onto it.

She moved, suddenly and swiftly, pressing up on her toes, pulling his head against her shoulder in a warm embrace. Something seemed to pass through him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, hands pressing softly on her back, just clinging to her, gently. One of her hands trailed in his hair, and down the back of his neck. As she held him, that writhing, apprehensive snake faded away, and her mind was serene.

And then he slowly pulled his hands up to her jawline, pulling back, tracing it with his fingers, gently, like she might break. He brushed a stray hair from her forehead, their eyes locked in the intimacy of the moment. And very gently, falteringly, he pressed his lips against hers.

It was strange. It did not feel to her that it was romantic... or not in the usual sense of the word. Eros paled in the expression of that tremulous contact. He was trying to tell her something there were no words for. The kiss communicated what he couldn't express, what neither could ever speak of.

The wind was cold as she closed her eyes, letting him kiss her with this alien tenderness. It was like he had broken since she'd last touched him, fallen away from himself and then crawled back up again.

A long time passed, and he finally moved to pull away. She slid her hand up his back and to the side of his face, holding him there in the moment. Then she pulled him into a deeper kiss, the sensation crackling palpably around her.

It reminded her of when rain beat against her back and arms in the vibrant power of a storm, cool and alive and all encompassing.

And they stayed there, locked in the kiss, as the wind blew through the alley and the night.

---

And that's how it had happened. She sighed softly at the memory, emotion welling up again in the early morning light.

Buffy sat up, letting the threadbare blanket fall to her lap. The blue light was thinning, becoming brighter as time crept closer to dawn. She fingered the edge of the blanket absently. He must have brought it up while she was sleeping.

She could feel little fitful sprays of water tickling her back, as they flew through the crypt door. It still hung on its broken hinges weakly, and had flown open in the night.

It was raining. Lightly, yes. The sound was hardly audible as it sprinkled delicately against the stones. But it was raining, and the smell of damp earth floated through the cool, dark space. It filled her nostrils as she inhaled deeply, stretching her neck and back. They cracked, and the stiffness of sleeping on hard stone eased slightly. Somehow, they had fallen asleep where they fell, together. She rolled to her side on the blanket, gazing out of the open door.

He was watching her, quietly. He had found a vast well of quiet since his return.

She looked at those quiet blue eyes, watching her. And she wondered if she was making a mistake. But somehow, as a soft roll of thunder rumbled like a purr in the distance, she didn't think so.

She rose, the thinly woven blanket falling to the ground as she stepped to the door. She let the water spray lightly against her naked skin. The shadowy blue light played on it, moving in the curves of her body as she leaned against the door jamb, just watching.

He walked beside her, trailed his arm around her waist, and leaned his cheek against her shoulder, taking in its soothing warmth.

---

They walked together again, as they had long before.

The rain was nothing but a soft mist, now. Fog rose from the pavement, which would soon be cut by the morning sun.

"I saw her standing there, the other night. Outside, below the window," Buffy said.

"Willow?"

"Yeah..." A car passed by, and sprayed water onto the pair. The soft, rustling sound of its tires against the moisture was like the rustling of the leaves overhead. Spike reached up and plucked a leaf as they walked, turning it around restlessly in his fingers.

"I don't think she's better... I mean, not yet. She doesn't know..." her voice trailed off as she thought about what she was trying to express.

"What, love?"

"Well... she doesn't know that it couldn't be that way. Tara wasn't where she belonged. She found a way out. She couldn't just keep the dead-- she couldn't just keep someone in a cage for herself..."

"She didn't know she had to let go," he said, softly, losing himself in his thoughts, "I mean, she should have let go. Sometimes you see something, and it's so damned bloody beautiful it makes you hurt... but you can't try to hold onto it. That makes it ugly, takes its life. She should have let go..."

"It's sad," Buffy said, "It's so sad what happened to her. To them."

"No," said Spike, "It's life... wild and clumsy and painful as hell. But it's not sad. I mean, Tara's home. Where you were, once..."

"No I don't mean that," she said, stopping, as they came to the pathway in front of her house, and looking up into his eyes, "I mean sad that they didn't get the time to say the right things. It wasn't finished That shouldn't happen."

"Time does as it will," he responded, twining his fingers through her own, "Life. That does whatever it's going to do. And we can't see everything 'cause we're like bloody ants on the surface of a bloody globe. All movement."

"So where's the resolution? Where can we look at something and say, 'There, it's done. The story's over.'?"

At that moment the door opened. And they stood together, hands entwined, arms connected like a low arch, breaching the small distance between them, as they faced each other. They turned their heads towards the noise.

"Hi," Dawn said. She'd been sleeping very lightly these days, and had been upstairs, listening to the rain on her windowsill.

"Hey Dawnie," her sister said, smiling at her fondly. Spike was looking at her, trailing his eyes from her face to her feet. His expression was a strange combination of love and dread. He froze in space, as Buffy let her fingers slide out of his grip, and walked up to the porch, and her sister.

They walked inside, and Buffy turned to close the newly repaired door, when Dawn, who had paused a moment, pushed forward.

"Hey, Spike...?" she called to the receding figure. He stopped.

"I'm thinking of making hummus and pastrami enchiladas, since I'm awake. You want to join the experiment?"

He chuckled softly to himself, turned around, and walked up the path towards her.

---

The End

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