Rating: PG
Feedback: Thank you. Melpomenethalia@aol.com
Spoilers: Through "The Gift"
Distribution: Here. If you're interested, please let me know.
Summary: Buffy's still dead.
Author's Note: It's taking me a while, but it's getting' there…
Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy (Joss Whedon), a wonderfully creative company whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
Part 12
How long Buffy lay asleep on the floor she was never sure. All she knew was that she awoke feeling deeply refreshed, like when she was a little girl and it was the first day of summer vacation. She yawned luxuriously, and as her eyes opened, she saw William's form draped over the couch, his eyes shut tightly and a gray woolen blanket thrown over him.
Buffy smiled happily. At the speed of her thoughts, two plates of steaming chocolate-chip pancakes appeared on the table, accompanied by tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, a bowl of vanilla whipped cream, and a dish of confectioner's sugar. To her amusement, she saw William's nostrils twitch as the aroma reached his nose. His eyelids sprang up without ceremony, and he was shoveling pancakes into his mouth in less than a moment.
"Hope you slept well," he mumbled through a very full mouth.
She giggled and realized that here was the first place she had truly felt able to laugh in many months. No demons to slay, no portals to close, no friends in peril. Just her, a pile of chocolate-chip pancakes, and a friend. It felt plain nice.
"Very. No bad dreams," she said with a smile. "Thanks for staying, though."
"And thank you for the breakfast. I don't believe I've ever had these before. Breakfast in my time was often as not a fried tomato sandwich."
A companionable silence followed, broken only by the sounds of knives and forks scraping against plates. It was strange, but she felt a very comfortable bond with William, as though she had brought with her a bit of her old ally, but untainted by the stains of his vampire self. It was a warm feeling, like a piece of home. Home… her thoughts turned to what William had told her before her sleep. Today was her funeral. Suddenly, her appetite completely vanished.
"Is there something wrong," William inquired with concern. At her lack of response, he nodded. "The funeral. I understand."
"Did you… were you there for yours?" Buffy asked tentatively. She didn't want to pry.
William drew a deep breath and pushed the plates away, the table abruptly vacant again. "Will you come with me, Buffy? I've someplace to show you."
She bobbed her head in assent, and suddenly she and William were seated on a bench under the shade of a yew tree in a silent graveyard. A large stone church stood in the background, it's shadow falling across them in the early morning light. A single, unfamiliar birdcall from the branches above broke the stillness in the place, and Buffy realized that a low, simple headstone lay beside her. The inscription read "William Stevens, 1855-1880, Dearest Son."
"You?"
He gave her a soft smile. "Yes. I was here. My poor, dear mother sat just where you are now, and my little sister knealt beside her, her head in her lap as they both wept." His eyes sparkled more than usual, and he blinked rapidly. "Would it surprise you to know Spike came here once, as well?"
"Why?"
"I'm not quite sure. The shade from the tree is very thick, even at mid-day. He stayed in its branches, watching the picture of our mourning sister and mother over his now-empty coffin from above like some perverse angel. But… I believe his heart, demonic as it was, was moved. I swear I saw a tear trace his cheek," he paused. "He left them alone. They never knew."
No amount of blinking could disperse the tear that mirrored the path taken down his demon-self's face so long ago. He turned away, embarrassed, but Buffy touched his shoulder gently, and when he turned, she stroked his cheek softly. The soul colored unmistakably, but she placed a quick kiss to his temple anyway.
"You miss them, don't you?"
"Ehm, yes," said the flustered young man before her. "Yes, I do. They remind me very much of your mother and Dawn. Perhaps it's part of the reason Spike fought so hard to keep them from having to mourn you these last few months."
"But, you did go to your own funeral? I'm not sure whether going would be a good thing or just… weird," she confessed.
"It's entirely your choice, Buffy. No one will think the worse of you if you decide not to. If you choose to go, we'll accompany you, if you like," he offered. "It's not easy, though. I must tell you that."
Buffy considered for a moment. Somehow, it felt right that she should be there, even if she couldn't offer her loved ones any sign of her presense. "I know it won't be easy, but, well, that hasn't stopped me before. But I'd like it if the three of you were there, if you wouldn't mind."
William smiled at her with undisguised admiration. She was a strong one, no question about it.
"I'll be beside you, for what it's worth. Drusilla? Darla?" he called. "Would you come here, please?"
The two spirits walked out from behind the tree to answer his summons, Drusilla dressed in a snowy white gown and Darla in a pair of jeans and a tight, low, red sweater. Drusilla's gaze seemed to read Buffy's intent immediately, and the Slayer reminded herself that she was, after all, psychic.
The dark haired woman drew her into a sisterly embrace and murmured "Of course I shall go with you."
"What? The funeral?" Darla asked. "Suppose I may as well tag along."
Buffy smiled at the other blonde over Dru's shoulder, happy in spite of herself that the other woman was coming as well. For all her prickles, Darla had an unvarnished, raw honesty to her that might be a help.
A hand rested lightly on her arm, squeezing reassuringly, and Buffy was stunned to see that it belonged to Darla. With Drusilla's arm thrown gently around her waist on one side, Darla's hand still pressing her arm lightly on the other, and William standing behind her, his hand daring to stretch out to barely stroke her hair in a comforting gesture, Buffy prepared for the arrival of her mourners. She hadn't long to wait.