Title: "Faith, Hope, and Love"
Author: Athena-Parthenos
Feedback: Suggestions, criticisms, and praise are all welcomed at gjohnson@willamette.edu
Rating: PG
Category: Buffy/Spike UST, angst
Spoilers: "Him," Season 7 in general
Summary: Buffy wanders into a church and runs into the last person she expected -- William.
Disclaimer: Buffy, Spike, Xander, etc., are not mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and ME.
Author's Note: Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You know," said Buffy jovially, kicking the vampire in the gut, "you should really get that overbite checked out." The vampire stumbled, then straightened up and growled. He rushed her; she neatly sidestepped him and whirled, grabbing him by the collar and staking him through the back. He dissolved into a pile of dust; she sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.
"They never learn, do they?" she said to herself, resuming her walk through the cemetery. Idly she tossed her stake from hand to hand, humming "Jingle Bells." Christmas was sneaking up on her yet again; it was hard to believe it was in less than a month.
She stopped, looking around. She realized she was near the entrance of Spike's old crypt. She bit her lip, then resolutely walked in the other direction.
Spike. She didn't know what to do for him, how to help him. Angel was the only vampire she had ever heard of with a soul, and he had been cursed with it. Spike had seen the importance of a soul and had willingly fought for his – for her. But she was still hesitant to get close to him, to discover just what had driven him to do whatever he'd done for his soul. So she had thrown him in with Xander, hoping his near-insanity would resolve itself and that he would be able to . . . .
She stopped again. Able to do what? She didn't know. A faint sense of dread had been growing in her chest ever since Spike had showed up in the basement, with his mad words and dark eyes and muttered prophecies. That, coupled with the strange dreams of "From beneath you, it devours" and the girls being killed, was enough to subtly frighten her, to increase the quiet panic she now felt constantly. She swallowed, wishing there was someone she could talk to – Giles had made it clear she was to work things out herself, however, and she had resolved only to call him if things were clearly over her head. Willow, Xander, Anya, Dawn – none of them could understand precisely what was happening, and she was sure that if she tried to explain it to them, she would fail.
She began trudging again, hefting her stake, almost wishing a vampire would attack. After all, in the midst of a fight she could hardly be bothered with thinking of dread, and dreams, and souled vampires.
The minutes slid by quickly, as if she was in a trance. She let her feet carry her through residential neighborhoods, past homes where children lay sleeping and parents were wrapping early Christmas presents. The occasional car passed by in silence, blinding her temporarily with its headlights before going on its way. The night seemed unusually still and serene.
Buffy suddenly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, catching herself before she fell. Annoyed, she came out of her reverie and looked up to find herself in front of a faintly lit, slightly gothic-looking church. The board by the steps read, "Midnight Service – Tonight Only – Enter and Be Saved." Buffy cocked an eyebrow. The death toll hadn't been any higher in the past few weeks than it was normally – or had it? What else would account for a midnight service weeks before Christmas?
Intrigued, she slowly climbed the steps. She checked at the large ornate doors, hearing singing inside. She took adeep breath, slipped her stake inside her coat, and opened the door.
Her first impression was that the building was on fire – everything was dark, and points of light shone brightly. But no, it was simply hundreds of tiny candles, glinting in the near-darkness of the auditorium. She was barely able to make out the heads of parishioners, moving with the rhythm of the slow, mournful song being played by the organ up front. Solemn voices swelled around her.
She let the door close behind her. Feeling self-conscious she slipped into the back row and took a seat. There was only one other person in the row, someone sitting bent over with his head in his hands. The person had no candle.
Buffy folded her hands in her lap, acutely aware of the fact that she had no idea what song was being sung or even what denomination of church this was. Nervously she scooted closer to the lone person down the pew. She leaned toward him, now a mere foot away from him, and whispered, "Do you know what's going on?"
The person jerked upward, away from her. Startled, she pulled away and stared at him, trying to see him, but his face was in shadow.
"Buffy?"
She gasped. "Spike?"
*****
They stared at each other in silence. At last Spike inched forward into the light. He looked haggard, worn. "What – what are you doing here?" he asked hoarsely.
She glanced down at her hands, then looked back up at him. "I don't know." She tried to smile, the initial shock of discovering Spike in a church service starting to wear off. "What about you?"
An evasive look crossed his face. "It's a free country, I'll have you know," he said hastily, defensively.
She blinked. "What? Spike, I'm not about to give you the third degree for – going to church." The words were strange in her mouth. She looked at him questioningly. "I just want to know."
The congregation began singing a new song, one even darker and drearier than the first one. The candles glittered.
He sighed, glancing sidelong at her. He began to speak, and she leaned forward to catch his words over the dirge-like singing of the church. "I been coming here for a while now," he admitted, his voice low, almost ashamed. "Tell you the truth, I didn't know where else to go. Used to be --" He took a deep breath. "Used to be I went every Sunday. Listened to the sermons, took Communion, sang the songs, learned the verses. I even had favorite ones."
She stared at him, confused and a little touched that he would share a piece of his human life with her. She tried to say something and couldn't find any words.
"First Corinthians, thirteenth chapter," he whispered. He reached out and picked up a pew Bible, careful not to touch the cross etched onto the front cover. Almost reverently he flipped through the thin pages, stopping near the end. In a hushed, deliberate voice she had never heard him use, he read, "'If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.'"
He looked up at her, his eyes shining. He seemed strangely naked, with his face so open and a holy book within his hands. Quietly, he said, "There's more of it. If you wanted to hear it. It was my favorite."
Buffy shifted uncomfortably. She had no experience with this Spike who read Bible verses, who seemed to believe them in some deep and fundamental way. But she was curious. "Okay."
He turned his attention back to the page. His voice was a soothing lilt, a gentle litany, above the wailing song of the parishioners. "'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"
He raised his head, regarded her in the dim half-light. A rueful little smile played about his lips. He bowed his head again. "'But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
"'And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.'"
He closed the Bible, glanced up at her. "I had that one memorized," he confessed. "'Course, the translation was different, then. But the meaning was there."
"Spike, I never knew." She tried to smile at him, to let him know that he had somewhat impressed her.
"'S a lot you never knew about me, luv." He looked quiet and contemplative, his shoulders slumped, the Bible still in his hands. A new song, one that seemed to be about hope and redemption, was struck up, and the entire congregation rose to their feet, singing loudly and joyfully. Spike and Buffy remained seated, silent, segregated from the revived parishioners.
She lowered her eyes. "I guess so," she agreed softly. She gave him a shy, sidelong look. "I'd like to know more, though. Someday," she added, a sudden panicked feeling taking her. This revelation was still too much, too soon.
He regarded her coolly, perhaps thinking he had revealed too much. "Maybe."
Uneasily she shifted. He was getting reticent, but he had whetted her curiosity, and despite herself she *did* want to learn more. "You never answered my question. Why are you here tonight?"
"I'll tell you why I'm not here Sunday morning." He grinned, but it was forced. "Too many bleedin' stained-glass windows, that's why. Fry a fellow before he can say so much as a 'Hail Mary.'"
She raised her eyebrows at that, and he quieted again.
The song ended. A man began to pray, and the room fell silent. Spike spoke in a whisper.
"I come here because it's quiet. Even when they sing, it's quiet. Sort of peaceful like, you know? And the memories aren't so hard." He shook his head, maybe trying to get rid of them. "But they're still there." His voice dropped; she strained to hear him. "They'll always be there." He opened the Bible again, and solemnly read, "'For this too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.'"
He closed the book, laid it beside him on the pew. A sudden look of despair -- stark and somehow horrifying -- crossed his face, and he turned away.
"Spike -- "
The prayer ended and the lights flickered on. Light, bright and painful, flooded the room, and Buffy blinked against the onslaught. The room suddenly burst with countless tiny conversations as parishioners began to head towards the exits. She turned back to Spike, but he was gone.
*****
She stuck her hands in her coat pockets, feeling a sudden chill as she walked home. What a strange night it had been. Discovering Spike in a church, atoning for his sins -- sins beyond count, she was sure -- she certainly hadn't expected that. And yet it made a sort of odd sense, in a way, considering what she had seen the last time the two of them had been in a church. Of course he must've had some kind of religious background as a human. It was quite conceivable that he would have relearned some of that with his soul returned. But it was still a little frightening.
Buffy turned into the driveway, sighing and pulling up her coat collar. She reached the front door and turned around for a minute, taking in the moon and the stars shining brightly despite the persistent ambient light of Sunnydale. The moon shone forth, looking cheerful in the dark night sky, as the stars twinkled merrily around it. She watched them for a few moments in silence, then turned and went inside, alone.
~FIN
Author: Athena-Parthenos
Feedback: Suggestions, criticisms, and praise are all welcomed at gjohnson@willamette.edu
Rating: PG
Category: Buffy/Spike UST, angst
Spoilers: "Him," Season 7 in general
Summary: Buffy wanders into a church and runs into the last person she expected -- William.
Disclaimer: Buffy, Spike, Xander, etc., are not mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and ME.
Author's Note: Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You know," said Buffy jovially, kicking the vampire in the gut, "you should really get that overbite checked out." The vampire stumbled, then straightened up and growled. He rushed her; she neatly sidestepped him and whirled, grabbing him by the collar and staking him through the back. He dissolved into a pile of dust; she sighed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes.
"They never learn, do they?" she said to herself, resuming her walk through the cemetery. Idly she tossed her stake from hand to hand, humming "Jingle Bells." Christmas was sneaking up on her yet again; it was hard to believe it was in less than a month.
She stopped, looking around. She realized she was near the entrance of Spike's old crypt. She bit her lip, then resolutely walked in the other direction.
Spike. She didn't know what to do for him, how to help him. Angel was the only vampire she had ever heard of with a soul, and he had been cursed with it. Spike had seen the importance of a soul and had willingly fought for his – for her. But she was still hesitant to get close to him, to discover just what had driven him to do whatever he'd done for his soul. So she had thrown him in with Xander, hoping his near-insanity would resolve itself and that he would be able to . . . .
She stopped again. Able to do what? She didn't know. A faint sense of dread had been growing in her chest ever since Spike had showed up in the basement, with his mad words and dark eyes and muttered prophecies. That, coupled with the strange dreams of "From beneath you, it devours" and the girls being killed, was enough to subtly frighten her, to increase the quiet panic she now felt constantly. She swallowed, wishing there was someone she could talk to – Giles had made it clear she was to work things out herself, however, and she had resolved only to call him if things were clearly over her head. Willow, Xander, Anya, Dawn – none of them could understand precisely what was happening, and she was sure that if she tried to explain it to them, she would fail.
She began trudging again, hefting her stake, almost wishing a vampire would attack. After all, in the midst of a fight she could hardly be bothered with thinking of dread, and dreams, and souled vampires.
The minutes slid by quickly, as if she was in a trance. She let her feet carry her through residential neighborhoods, past homes where children lay sleeping and parents were wrapping early Christmas presents. The occasional car passed by in silence, blinding her temporarily with its headlights before going on its way. The night seemed unusually still and serene.
Buffy suddenly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, catching herself before she fell. Annoyed, she came out of her reverie and looked up to find herself in front of a faintly lit, slightly gothic-looking church. The board by the steps read, "Midnight Service – Tonight Only – Enter and Be Saved." Buffy cocked an eyebrow. The death toll hadn't been any higher in the past few weeks than it was normally – or had it? What else would account for a midnight service weeks before Christmas?
Intrigued, she slowly climbed the steps. She checked at the large ornate doors, hearing singing inside. She took adeep breath, slipped her stake inside her coat, and opened the door.
Her first impression was that the building was on fire – everything was dark, and points of light shone brightly. But no, it was simply hundreds of tiny candles, glinting in the near-darkness of the auditorium. She was barely able to make out the heads of parishioners, moving with the rhythm of the slow, mournful song being played by the organ up front. Solemn voices swelled around her.
She let the door close behind her. Feeling self-conscious she slipped into the back row and took a seat. There was only one other person in the row, someone sitting bent over with his head in his hands. The person had no candle.
Buffy folded her hands in her lap, acutely aware of the fact that she had no idea what song was being sung or even what denomination of church this was. Nervously she scooted closer to the lone person down the pew. She leaned toward him, now a mere foot away from him, and whispered, "Do you know what's going on?"
The person jerked upward, away from her. Startled, she pulled away and stared at him, trying to see him, but his face was in shadow.
"Buffy?"
She gasped. "Spike?"
*****
They stared at each other in silence. At last Spike inched forward into the light. He looked haggard, worn. "What – what are you doing here?" he asked hoarsely.
She glanced down at her hands, then looked back up at him. "I don't know." She tried to smile, the initial shock of discovering Spike in a church service starting to wear off. "What about you?"
An evasive look crossed his face. "It's a free country, I'll have you know," he said hastily, defensively.
She blinked. "What? Spike, I'm not about to give you the third degree for – going to church." The words were strange in her mouth. She looked at him questioningly. "I just want to know."
The congregation began singing a new song, one even darker and drearier than the first one. The candles glittered.
He sighed, glancing sidelong at her. He began to speak, and she leaned forward to catch his words over the dirge-like singing of the church. "I been coming here for a while now," he admitted, his voice low, almost ashamed. "Tell you the truth, I didn't know where else to go. Used to be --" He took a deep breath. "Used to be I went every Sunday. Listened to the sermons, took Communion, sang the songs, learned the verses. I even had favorite ones."
She stared at him, confused and a little touched that he would share a piece of his human life with her. She tried to say something and couldn't find any words.
"First Corinthians, thirteenth chapter," he whispered. He reached out and picked up a pew Bible, careful not to touch the cross etched onto the front cover. Almost reverently he flipped through the thin pages, stopping near the end. In a hushed, deliberate voice she had never heard him use, he read, "'If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.'"
He looked up at her, his eyes shining. He seemed strangely naked, with his face so open and a holy book within his hands. Quietly, he said, "There's more of it. If you wanted to hear it. It was my favorite."
Buffy shifted uncomfortably. She had no experience with this Spike who read Bible verses, who seemed to believe them in some deep and fundamental way. But she was curious. "Okay."
He turned his attention back to the page. His voice was a soothing lilt, a gentle litany, above the wailing song of the parishioners. "'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.'"
He raised his head, regarded her in the dim half-light. A rueful little smile played about his lips. He bowed his head again. "'But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
"'And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.'"
He closed the Bible, glanced up at her. "I had that one memorized," he confessed. "'Course, the translation was different, then. But the meaning was there."
"Spike, I never knew." She tried to smile at him, to let him know that he had somewhat impressed her.
"'S a lot you never knew about me, luv." He looked quiet and contemplative, his shoulders slumped, the Bible still in his hands. A new song, one that seemed to be about hope and redemption, was struck up, and the entire congregation rose to their feet, singing loudly and joyfully. Spike and Buffy remained seated, silent, segregated from the revived parishioners.
She lowered her eyes. "I guess so," she agreed softly. She gave him a shy, sidelong look. "I'd like to know more, though. Someday," she added, a sudden panicked feeling taking her. This revelation was still too much, too soon.
He regarded her coolly, perhaps thinking he had revealed too much. "Maybe."
Uneasily she shifted. He was getting reticent, but he had whetted her curiosity, and despite herself she *did* want to learn more. "You never answered my question. Why are you here tonight?"
"I'll tell you why I'm not here Sunday morning." He grinned, but it was forced. "Too many bleedin' stained-glass windows, that's why. Fry a fellow before he can say so much as a 'Hail Mary.'"
She raised her eyebrows at that, and he quieted again.
The song ended. A man began to pray, and the room fell silent. Spike spoke in a whisper.
"I come here because it's quiet. Even when they sing, it's quiet. Sort of peaceful like, you know? And the memories aren't so hard." He shook his head, maybe trying to get rid of them. "But they're still there." His voice dropped; she strained to hear him. "They'll always be there." He opened the Bible again, and solemnly read, "'For this too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.'"
He closed the book, laid it beside him on the pew. A sudden look of despair -- stark and somehow horrifying -- crossed his face, and he turned away.
"Spike -- "
The prayer ended and the lights flickered on. Light, bright and painful, flooded the room, and Buffy blinked against the onslaught. The room suddenly burst with countless tiny conversations as parishioners began to head towards the exits. She turned back to Spike, but he was gone.
*****
She stuck her hands in her coat pockets, feeling a sudden chill as she walked home. What a strange night it had been. Discovering Spike in a church, atoning for his sins -- sins beyond count, she was sure -- she certainly hadn't expected that. And yet it made a sort of odd sense, in a way, considering what she had seen the last time the two of them had been in a church. Of course he must've had some kind of religious background as a human. It was quite conceivable that he would have relearned some of that with his soul returned. But it was still a little frightening.
Buffy turned into the driveway, sighing and pulling up her coat collar. She reached the front door and turned around for a minute, taking in the moon and the stars shining brightly despite the persistent ambient light of Sunnydale. The moon shone forth, looking cheerful in the dark night sky, as the stars twinkled merrily around it. She watched them for a few moments in silence, then turned and went inside, alone.
~FIN