Title: Two Weeks With William
Author: Edith Campbell
Section: 10/10 (Yes, you have read right! This is *finally* finished!)
Relationship: Spike/Buffy
Disclaimer: Alas, they all belong to the mighty Joss, except for the ones I made up to use in Spike's memories (ie. his sister). Those are mine. :)
Distribution: I don't mind, but please let me know where it's being distributed. :)
Rating: PG 15 for language
Spoilers: Up to 'The Gift' Please note that Buffy is back. How? Use your imagination. :) Major 'Fool For Love' spoilers.
Feedback: Oh please! Yesterdays_Child4@y... Thank you for all the lovely comments last time. :) You're all too nice!!
Summary: While fighting a pack of vampires with Buffy, Spike gets knocked unconscious. When he wakes up, Buffy is presented with a slight problem: Spike thinks it's 1880.
Dedication: To everybody who has stayed with this story and bothered to write me just to ask if I had fallen off the face of the earth. :) And also to a good friend of mine, who yelled at me for throwing away my talent. Good luck with your own talent, and happy birthday. :)
Author's Note: Some swearing in this chapter. Bad Buffy.
********************************************************
Buffy was nervous.
Not world endage nervous. She wasn't gripped by an all consuming panic (well, she was... but this was *different*), or driven by the blinding force of being chosen. The fate of her friends and millions of people she'd never met weren't resting on her shoulders. She should have been just fine.
She wasn't.
Letting out a tiny, anxious squeak, Buffy leaned closer to her mirror, armed with a pair of tweezers and a bottle of cover up, and began to slay all of her blemishes with an admirable fury. Then, she stepped back and did a tiny little twirl, critically examining herself from all angles.
In her beige pants and pink peasant blouse, she looked like a rattled Buffybot, minus the skirt. She even wore the big, vapid smile like an extremely important accessory. The thought made her ill.
The impending evening also made her ill, even though Willow and Giles had both reassured her that Spike would probably remember very little of his ordeal.
"I can't DO this!" she cried, her voice raising slightly. Slaying vampires was one thing. Telling one that you loved him, had slept with him, and had stolen over a hundred years worth of his poetry was entirely another.
She just hoped that Spike would be so excited over the first two that he'd forget to kill her over the third.
Determinded now, Buffy turned to her bed and picked up the jewelry box containing all of the belongings Spike had saved from his life as William. She caressed the lid softly with the palm of her hand, remembering the man he had once been. The man who had made him what he was.
The vampire she loved.
***
The walk to Spike's crypt seemed to take longer than usual. Each step the Slayer took made her stomach feel heavier. The jewelry box rested in her arms like dead weight. Her heart wouldn't stop hammering.
"Hi, Spike," she was saying to herself, as she marched through the surprisingly abandoned graveyard, "Sorry it took me a week and a half to get up the courage to come and see you, slaying duties and all. Lots of nasties to kill, much evil in the world..." She trailed off with a demented laugh, before picking up with a newfound gusto, "Anyway, just wanted to return these poems. They're pretty good, not like terrific but- no don't say that, bad Buffy. They're pretty good. They don't like suck. Oh, and, uh, I sorta kicked my knickers off for ya. How do you like that, with the knickers? Ha."
Ugh. She was Buffy Summers. She *hated* words. She half wished a particularily talented vamp would hop out from behind a grave and put her out of her misery.
Luck wasn't on her side and she could already see Spike's crypt looming in the distance. Her feet seemed to drag the remaining ten feet to the door. Summoning up a mock courage, she raised her fist to knock, then looked at it, bewildered, and simply kicked the door down.
Just because she loved him didn't mean she needed to use her manners.
The cyrpt was darker than usual. None of the candles were lit and upon entering Buffy had the impression of being swallowed alive. She felt her chest tighten in panic and clutched the box of William's belongings almost desperately. She forced herself to breathe, and concentrated fully on the familiar smell of old cigarette smoke. This was Spike's home. Not a coffin. Despite herself, she shivered and began a frantic mantra in her head.
She could do this. She wasn't a nervous little fool. She was the Slayer. She was all powerful.
She could do this. Really, she could. She could waltz in there, all cocky and casual, and act totally normal.
It was best to get it over with, and she knew it.
"Spike?" she called, groping for the wall. Her vampire sense wasn't tingling, which was odd. If he wasn't here, she was going to track him down and stake him, just for getting her all riled up and nervous over nothing.
She waited, right hand pressed against the cool stone of the wall, but his answer never came. Swearing, she fumbled around in the dark before locating a candle, conveniently placed by a booklet of matches. In mere seconds, she lit it and held it up, illuminating the contents of the crypt.
The contents of the crypt weren't right. She couldn't place it exactly, but something just didn't sit well. Intuition on fire, Buffy turned in a slow circle and held her breath.
The crypt didn't look *lived* in. Sure, she could smell the cigarettes, but the smell didn't seem *fresh*. The sheets on his makeshift bed weren't crumpled. The door on his bar fridge was open and it appeared to be empty.
Dread began to build within her, heavy and thick. Unconsciously, she began to search the floor for any obvious patches of dust, before remembering that she was in *Spike's* crypt and the whole place was full of dust.
"Spike?" she called, nerves making her voice harsher than she meant it to be, "Where the hell are you? If you're lurking around in here somewhere, I swear on your grave that I'll-"
And then she saw it, nestled on top of his sheets. The single piece of white paper seemed to jump out at her. Moving rapidly now, she snatched it off the bed. Her heart stopped when she recognized the neat, angular script and read what he had written.
'Well, pet, decided to keep that promise. I'm gone for good this time, and don't you worry your pretty little head about me returning. What can I say? It's been fun. Look after the niblet for me.
'Yours for all eternity,
(and this written with a sardonic sarcasm so loud the Slayer swore she could hear it)
'William A. Wyndham.'
For seconds, the crypt remained eerily still. Buffy clutched the note in one hand. Without noticing, she settled William's jewelry box onto the bed. She did not blink. She did not breath.
And then she exploded.
Ripping the note into a million little pieces, she roared, "How dare you?!"
Violently, she picked up a candlestick and smashed it against the wall. She kicked the bier in the middle with all her might, sending the sheet flying and demolishing the lid.
"How could you FUCKING do that to me?! How could you leave??"
Stridely purposely to the bar fridge, she lifted it high above her head and flung it as far as she could. It hit the floor with a crash and the door snapped off. This she picked up and hurled out the window.
"You're just like him, you pathetic-"
Her eyes lit on the sheet and she pounced, and began to rip it.
"-blood sucking-"
The pull of the fabric did not offer her much resistance. Frustrated, she walked to the wall and kicked a whole right through it.
"-leech! You're just like them you know! Congratulations! You've turned into Angel!"
She was just about to hurl a piece of the broken bier at the remains of the bar fridge when she saw the jewelry box, shoved in the corner and spilled by her carnage. Her resolve crumpled and the piece of bier landed at her feet. Feeling rather empty, she went to the corner and sat down by the jewelry box. Gently, she pulled it into her lap, curled over it, and began to sob.
"I loved you and you're gone," she whispered, over and over, until the tears were too much and she fell silent.
***
The graveyard at night was no match for the Big Bad. He strutted through it, all bleached cockiness, and almost dared something to attack him. He wanted to show his might. He was bleedin' powerful and it was time for the whole entire world to remember it.
Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Spike looked around, taking in the seemingly endless dark. He was in his element. He puffed up his chest and felt the strength course through his veins.
Abruptly, he let out his breath and slumped his shoulders. It was right hard to act tough when that same world had just discovered the truth.
Sighing moodily, Spike sat down in front of a grave, idly tracing the letters that spelt "Joyce Summers" with his index finger. God, how he wished she were here. She'd sort out this whole bloody mess, probably get all the dirt from the Slayer and tell him just what was what.
As long as the what wasn't that the whelp was cooler than him and that he had pranced around like a bleedin' nancyboy for the better part of two weeks.
If only he could remember what had happened! Vaguely, he could recall a nice view of the Slayer's cleavage in the cemetary, a girl who looked like Kitty having dinner in the Summers' home, and... somebody in an old fashioned blue dress dancing around him, making him lost in the soft, flowing colour, until he was...
Bloody hell, had he had sex with somebody in a blue dress? His mind was screaming that he had, and he hoped it had been amazing, because he couldn't remember it.
"Well, congratulations, William old boy," he said dryly, "Time you became a man, don't you think?"
He wondered who she was, and then dismissed it. It hardly mattered. He only hoped he hadn't written her any poetry.
Exhausted, he ran a hand over his eyes and tried to let go of the feeling that he had forgotten something incredibly important. Something life changing. He shook his head angrily and swore he felt his brain rattle. He was experiencing the worst headache of his unlife, chip be damned.
"Spike?"
The word, softly spoken, echoed through his head, startling him. He looked up abruptly and felt his breath catch at the sight of the Slayer framed in the moonlight, her face obscured by the shadows.
Buffy stared unbelievably down at the vampire sitting by her mother's grave, suddenly unsure of what to do. She had left his crypt heartbroken and the misery was still raw. Coming to her mother's grave had seemed natural. She couldn't face her friends like this. Couldn't tell them that Spike was *gone*.
And here he was! A million emotions swept through her, making her weak. Pain, anguish, relief, joy, anger... She settled on anger and advanced on him. He seemed confused and glowered up at her. When she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and hauled him to his feet, he actually swatted at her hands.
For a moment, Spike didn't know exactly what she was up to. She stroked the lapels of his duster almost tenderly and he thought for a confusing moment that she meant to kiss him, which he was game for. Mentally, he heard the soft snap of a corset coming undone and that feeling tugged at him again, but he pushed it away and closed his eyes, prepared to feel her mouth on hers. It never came. Instead, he felt her fist on his jaw in one of her trademark coldcocks. His head snapped back and he went flying, landing with an undignified huff five feet away.
The Slayer advanced on him swiftly, standing over him. For the first time, he noticed that her cheeks were tear stained and that her hands were trembling. Worry passed through him and that made him angry. Her and her stupid little gang had probably passed the week away making fun of who he had been and he'd be damned if he was going to stand around and take it.
"You bastard!" she hissed, and to her horror, her voice broke. Ashamed, she turned from him and stalked over to her mother's grave. With her back to him, she added, "I can't believe you'd just *leave*. Even Angel said goodbye."
"Well, I'm not Angel, am I?" he grouched, sitting up and rubbing his jaw, "And what about you, eh? Finally decide to come and poke fun at poor ol' Will?"
She rounded on him again, eyes flashing. "So I didn't come earlier, so what? This hasn't been easy on me, you know! What if we'd needed you? Huh? What if Glory had been- oh I dunno- resurrected? Then what?"
"Hasn't been easy on you? What about *me*? You left me sitting there for a soddin' week! I didn't even know what had happened! Bloody hell, I still don't! So don't you get all high and mighty with me, princess, when it was you and your precious little Scoobies who left. So go on. Leave me here in peace." With a final glare, he turned his back on her and lit a cigarette.
Buffy whirled around and watched the smoke curl up above his head. "Ugh! I had so forgotten how annoying you are! Just go then! Leave!"
As soon as she said the words, she wanted to take them back, but the hurt was too fresh. If Spike wanted nothing to do with her, then that was fine. Her almighty pride would save her.
He got to his feet and gave her a curt look, before shrugging and heading off in the direction of the cemetary's exit. He had had enough. His pride was bruised immeasurably and, although he had no idea where exactly he was going, he knew he needed to be away. Maybe not forever, but for awhile. He needed time to be on his own, away from Sunnydale, away from where people *knew* him. He wanted somewhere remote where he could nurse his ego and remind himself that he was bad, chip be damned. Remind himself that William had died in an alley, over a century ago.
"Spike, stop!"
He did and cursed himself for turning around. He really was turning into the Great Poof, Buffy's comparison hadn't been far off.
He stared at her for a moment, and he could tell that she was still angry, which was fine because so was he. But there was something different about her. She seemed... scared. He raised a scarred eyebrow at her.
"Make it quick, Slayer," he said, surlier than he had meant to, "Don't have all night."
"Don't go," she whispered, and felt her eyes flood. This shamed her and she bowed her head.
"Give me one good reason to stay."
This was her cue, and she knew it. She only wished he wasn't so *angry*. Although she had figured that he would be hurt by her lack of visiting immediately following Those Two Weeks, she had also thought a simple explanation of her newfound feelings would explain that. She hadn't really imagined all the wounded pride and misplaced ego.
"I..." she said, and couldn't go on. Annoyed, she took a deep breath and gave it another go. "I-I-I-"
"Ahh, you really did meet that soddin' prat, didn't you? Spit it out, luv."
"I- I- I can't."
He shrugged, turned around, and continued on his way. She was going to lose him and, God, but it was going to be all her fault. This was no time for pride. Inhaling harshly, she opened her mouth and yelled at his duster clad back, "I love you!"
Spike froze midstep. For a moment, pure elation flooded him and he grinned, actually bloody grinned in the middle of this tirade! His headache let up and it came to him in a flash
'I love you, William.' The words danced on his conscience and dampended his spirit. So this was it then. Dru, Harmony, and Cecily, he dared to suspect, had all wanted Spike, and sod all else. He had become Spike long ago, and now the Slayer loved William. She loved a man who no longer existed, a man he could no longer be, and the irony in that broke his heart.
"Guess you got the girl, Will," he thought, before saying outloud, "William is dead, pet."
"W-what?" Buffy stammered, caught off guard. This wasn't the reaction she had expected.
He turned around slowly and forced a smile. "Died in 1880, in case you missed the memo."
And then it all became clear to her. Spike actually thought she only loved half of him, a half that could no longer be. She knew deep down that he would settle for that, could tell by his sad smile that he was no longer going to leave, but she wasn't content with that. Now that the words were said, she felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She wanted Spike to *know*.
"When I came back from... when I came back, it was a second chance. You said so yourself. A gift."
Spike didn't comment. Instead, he kicked at the ground with his shoe. Her death still hurt.
"Well?" she pushed.
He looked up at her, surprised by the clarity in her eyes. His were filled with turmoil. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand or something equally William-like, but stayed perfectly still.
"It was a bloody amazing gift," he admitted.
"And me meeting William- meeting *you*- so was that. Don't you see? It was like a puzzle, only I couldn't find that missing piece. I didn't know what made you *you*. What made you be good, and you shut your mouth and don't deny it! What made you love Dru all those years and what makes you love *me* now. I needed to meet the man behind the demon, Spike, and on your own you only gave me glimpses. Plus, chaining me to a wall? I'd prefer poetry any day."
She smiled wryly and looked up at Spike. He was staring at her, eyes filled with utter amazement. Her smile grew and she took a tentative step towards him.
"What are you saying, luv?" he asked, nervously.
"I think I already said it."
"Say it again."
Shyly, she murmured, "I love you, Spike. I love all of you."
He let out a gigantic whoop then, and grabbed her about the waist. Cool lips collided with warm ones and she held onto him tightly. He explored her freely, let go by her acceptance. Eventually, he let her come up for air.
Tentatively, they stared at each other, before Buffy reached down and gave his ass a good, hard swat, effectively killing the mood.
"What was that for?!" he asked, rubbing his posterior and smirking.
"I've wanted to do that *forever*!" she cried, giggling, "Those jeans, Spike, you are such a tease. I wanted to do that *so* bad the night those vampires jumped you! Oh, and you lost that bet by the way. You owe me big!"
Spike rolled his eyes. "They had an unfair advantage. Snuck up on me from behind."
"Whatever."
"Are you ever going to tell me what the hell happened? I think I deserve to know whether or not I should stake myself."
Buffy giggled and launched into a full and detailed account of all that had occurred, excluding only her dance with William as she had decided that now was not the place to tell him. By the end of it, Spike was reconsidering his decision to stay in Sunnydale.
"So Xander knows I wrote poetry?"
"Yup," Buffy said, and felt a small pang of pity.
"Oh bloody hell."
She laughed and took his hand, pulling him in the direction of her house.
"C'mon, I'm cold, let's go home. And I mean both of us. Your crypt isn't, uh, exactly liveable right now. Not that it ever was, of course."
She smirked up at him and he couldn't help himself. He leaned down and gave her one of the most ravishing kisses he could muster. Buffy was suitably breathtaken, but Spike looked confused.
"Slayer," he began, scratching his head, "not to totally rain on our little parade here but... errr... did I shag a woman in a blue dress?"
The Slayer's horrified gasp echoed throughout the cemetary.
THE END
(Sorry for the unnecessary amount of corniness in this chapter. It is late.)
Author: Edith Campbell
Section: 10/10 (Yes, you have read right! This is *finally* finished!)
Relationship: Spike/Buffy
Disclaimer: Alas, they all belong to the mighty Joss, except for the ones I made up to use in Spike's memories (ie. his sister). Those are mine. :)
Distribution: I don't mind, but please let me know where it's being distributed. :)
Rating: PG 15 for language
Spoilers: Up to 'The Gift' Please note that Buffy is back. How? Use your imagination. :) Major 'Fool For Love' spoilers.
Feedback: Oh please! Yesterdays_Child4@y... Thank you for all the lovely comments last time. :) You're all too nice!!
Summary: While fighting a pack of vampires with Buffy, Spike gets knocked unconscious. When he wakes up, Buffy is presented with a slight problem: Spike thinks it's 1880.
Dedication: To everybody who has stayed with this story and bothered to write me just to ask if I had fallen off the face of the earth. :) And also to a good friend of mine, who yelled at me for throwing away my talent. Good luck with your own talent, and happy birthday. :)
Author's Note: Some swearing in this chapter. Bad Buffy.
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Buffy was nervous.
Not world endage nervous. She wasn't gripped by an all consuming panic (well, she was... but this was *different*), or driven by the blinding force of being chosen. The fate of her friends and millions of people she'd never met weren't resting on her shoulders. She should have been just fine.
She wasn't.
Letting out a tiny, anxious squeak, Buffy leaned closer to her mirror, armed with a pair of tweezers and a bottle of cover up, and began to slay all of her blemishes with an admirable fury. Then, she stepped back and did a tiny little twirl, critically examining herself from all angles.
In her beige pants and pink peasant blouse, she looked like a rattled Buffybot, minus the skirt. She even wore the big, vapid smile like an extremely important accessory. The thought made her ill.
The impending evening also made her ill, even though Willow and Giles had both reassured her that Spike would probably remember very little of his ordeal.
"I can't DO this!" she cried, her voice raising slightly. Slaying vampires was one thing. Telling one that you loved him, had slept with him, and had stolen over a hundred years worth of his poetry was entirely another.
She just hoped that Spike would be so excited over the first two that he'd forget to kill her over the third.
Determinded now, Buffy turned to her bed and picked up the jewelry box containing all of the belongings Spike had saved from his life as William. She caressed the lid softly with the palm of her hand, remembering the man he had once been. The man who had made him what he was.
The vampire she loved.
***
The walk to Spike's crypt seemed to take longer than usual. Each step the Slayer took made her stomach feel heavier. The jewelry box rested in her arms like dead weight. Her heart wouldn't stop hammering.
"Hi, Spike," she was saying to herself, as she marched through the surprisingly abandoned graveyard, "Sorry it took me a week and a half to get up the courage to come and see you, slaying duties and all. Lots of nasties to kill, much evil in the world..." She trailed off with a demented laugh, before picking up with a newfound gusto, "Anyway, just wanted to return these poems. They're pretty good, not like terrific but- no don't say that, bad Buffy. They're pretty good. They don't like suck. Oh, and, uh, I sorta kicked my knickers off for ya. How do you like that, with the knickers? Ha."
Ugh. She was Buffy Summers. She *hated* words. She half wished a particularily talented vamp would hop out from behind a grave and put her out of her misery.
Luck wasn't on her side and she could already see Spike's crypt looming in the distance. Her feet seemed to drag the remaining ten feet to the door. Summoning up a mock courage, she raised her fist to knock, then looked at it, bewildered, and simply kicked the door down.
Just because she loved him didn't mean she needed to use her manners.
The cyrpt was darker than usual. None of the candles were lit and upon entering Buffy had the impression of being swallowed alive. She felt her chest tighten in panic and clutched the box of William's belongings almost desperately. She forced herself to breathe, and concentrated fully on the familiar smell of old cigarette smoke. This was Spike's home. Not a coffin. Despite herself, she shivered and began a frantic mantra in her head.
She could do this. She wasn't a nervous little fool. She was the Slayer. She was all powerful.
She could do this. Really, she could. She could waltz in there, all cocky and casual, and act totally normal.
It was best to get it over with, and she knew it.
"Spike?" she called, groping for the wall. Her vampire sense wasn't tingling, which was odd. If he wasn't here, she was going to track him down and stake him, just for getting her all riled up and nervous over nothing.
She waited, right hand pressed against the cool stone of the wall, but his answer never came. Swearing, she fumbled around in the dark before locating a candle, conveniently placed by a booklet of matches. In mere seconds, she lit it and held it up, illuminating the contents of the crypt.
The contents of the crypt weren't right. She couldn't place it exactly, but something just didn't sit well. Intuition on fire, Buffy turned in a slow circle and held her breath.
The crypt didn't look *lived* in. Sure, she could smell the cigarettes, but the smell didn't seem *fresh*. The sheets on his makeshift bed weren't crumpled. The door on his bar fridge was open and it appeared to be empty.
Dread began to build within her, heavy and thick. Unconsciously, she began to search the floor for any obvious patches of dust, before remembering that she was in *Spike's* crypt and the whole place was full of dust.
"Spike?" she called, nerves making her voice harsher than she meant it to be, "Where the hell are you? If you're lurking around in here somewhere, I swear on your grave that I'll-"
And then she saw it, nestled on top of his sheets. The single piece of white paper seemed to jump out at her. Moving rapidly now, she snatched it off the bed. Her heart stopped when she recognized the neat, angular script and read what he had written.
'Well, pet, decided to keep that promise. I'm gone for good this time, and don't you worry your pretty little head about me returning. What can I say? It's been fun. Look after the niblet for me.
'Yours for all eternity,
(and this written with a sardonic sarcasm so loud the Slayer swore she could hear it)
'William A. Wyndham.'
For seconds, the crypt remained eerily still. Buffy clutched the note in one hand. Without noticing, she settled William's jewelry box onto the bed. She did not blink. She did not breath.
And then she exploded.
Ripping the note into a million little pieces, she roared, "How dare you?!"
Violently, she picked up a candlestick and smashed it against the wall. She kicked the bier in the middle with all her might, sending the sheet flying and demolishing the lid.
"How could you FUCKING do that to me?! How could you leave??"
Stridely purposely to the bar fridge, she lifted it high above her head and flung it as far as she could. It hit the floor with a crash and the door snapped off. This she picked up and hurled out the window.
"You're just like him, you pathetic-"
Her eyes lit on the sheet and she pounced, and began to rip it.
"-blood sucking-"
The pull of the fabric did not offer her much resistance. Frustrated, she walked to the wall and kicked a whole right through it.
"-leech! You're just like them you know! Congratulations! You've turned into Angel!"
She was just about to hurl a piece of the broken bier at the remains of the bar fridge when she saw the jewelry box, shoved in the corner and spilled by her carnage. Her resolve crumpled and the piece of bier landed at her feet. Feeling rather empty, she went to the corner and sat down by the jewelry box. Gently, she pulled it into her lap, curled over it, and began to sob.
"I loved you and you're gone," she whispered, over and over, until the tears were too much and she fell silent.
***
The graveyard at night was no match for the Big Bad. He strutted through it, all bleached cockiness, and almost dared something to attack him. He wanted to show his might. He was bleedin' powerful and it was time for the whole entire world to remember it.
Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Spike looked around, taking in the seemingly endless dark. He was in his element. He puffed up his chest and felt the strength course through his veins.
Abruptly, he let out his breath and slumped his shoulders. It was right hard to act tough when that same world had just discovered the truth.
Sighing moodily, Spike sat down in front of a grave, idly tracing the letters that spelt "Joyce Summers" with his index finger. God, how he wished she were here. She'd sort out this whole bloody mess, probably get all the dirt from the Slayer and tell him just what was what.
As long as the what wasn't that the whelp was cooler than him and that he had pranced around like a bleedin' nancyboy for the better part of two weeks.
If only he could remember what had happened! Vaguely, he could recall a nice view of the Slayer's cleavage in the cemetary, a girl who looked like Kitty having dinner in the Summers' home, and... somebody in an old fashioned blue dress dancing around him, making him lost in the soft, flowing colour, until he was...
Bloody hell, had he had sex with somebody in a blue dress? His mind was screaming that he had, and he hoped it had been amazing, because he couldn't remember it.
"Well, congratulations, William old boy," he said dryly, "Time you became a man, don't you think?"
He wondered who she was, and then dismissed it. It hardly mattered. He only hoped he hadn't written her any poetry.
Exhausted, he ran a hand over his eyes and tried to let go of the feeling that he had forgotten something incredibly important. Something life changing. He shook his head angrily and swore he felt his brain rattle. He was experiencing the worst headache of his unlife, chip be damned.
"Spike?"
The word, softly spoken, echoed through his head, startling him. He looked up abruptly and felt his breath catch at the sight of the Slayer framed in the moonlight, her face obscured by the shadows.
Buffy stared unbelievably down at the vampire sitting by her mother's grave, suddenly unsure of what to do. She had left his crypt heartbroken and the misery was still raw. Coming to her mother's grave had seemed natural. She couldn't face her friends like this. Couldn't tell them that Spike was *gone*.
And here he was! A million emotions swept through her, making her weak. Pain, anguish, relief, joy, anger... She settled on anger and advanced on him. He seemed confused and glowered up at her. When she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and hauled him to his feet, he actually swatted at her hands.
For a moment, Spike didn't know exactly what she was up to. She stroked the lapels of his duster almost tenderly and he thought for a confusing moment that she meant to kiss him, which he was game for. Mentally, he heard the soft snap of a corset coming undone and that feeling tugged at him again, but he pushed it away and closed his eyes, prepared to feel her mouth on hers. It never came. Instead, he felt her fist on his jaw in one of her trademark coldcocks. His head snapped back and he went flying, landing with an undignified huff five feet away.
The Slayer advanced on him swiftly, standing over him. For the first time, he noticed that her cheeks were tear stained and that her hands were trembling. Worry passed through him and that made him angry. Her and her stupid little gang had probably passed the week away making fun of who he had been and he'd be damned if he was going to stand around and take it.
"You bastard!" she hissed, and to her horror, her voice broke. Ashamed, she turned from him and stalked over to her mother's grave. With her back to him, she added, "I can't believe you'd just *leave*. Even Angel said goodbye."
"Well, I'm not Angel, am I?" he grouched, sitting up and rubbing his jaw, "And what about you, eh? Finally decide to come and poke fun at poor ol' Will?"
She rounded on him again, eyes flashing. "So I didn't come earlier, so what? This hasn't been easy on me, you know! What if we'd needed you? Huh? What if Glory had been- oh I dunno- resurrected? Then what?"
"Hasn't been easy on you? What about *me*? You left me sitting there for a soddin' week! I didn't even know what had happened! Bloody hell, I still don't! So don't you get all high and mighty with me, princess, when it was you and your precious little Scoobies who left. So go on. Leave me here in peace." With a final glare, he turned his back on her and lit a cigarette.
Buffy whirled around and watched the smoke curl up above his head. "Ugh! I had so forgotten how annoying you are! Just go then! Leave!"
As soon as she said the words, she wanted to take them back, but the hurt was too fresh. If Spike wanted nothing to do with her, then that was fine. Her almighty pride would save her.
He got to his feet and gave her a curt look, before shrugging and heading off in the direction of the cemetary's exit. He had had enough. His pride was bruised immeasurably and, although he had no idea where exactly he was going, he knew he needed to be away. Maybe not forever, but for awhile. He needed time to be on his own, away from Sunnydale, away from where people *knew* him. He wanted somewhere remote where he could nurse his ego and remind himself that he was bad, chip be damned. Remind himself that William had died in an alley, over a century ago.
"Spike, stop!"
He did and cursed himself for turning around. He really was turning into the Great Poof, Buffy's comparison hadn't been far off.
He stared at her for a moment, and he could tell that she was still angry, which was fine because so was he. But there was something different about her. She seemed... scared. He raised a scarred eyebrow at her.
"Make it quick, Slayer," he said, surlier than he had meant to, "Don't have all night."
"Don't go," she whispered, and felt her eyes flood. This shamed her and she bowed her head.
"Give me one good reason to stay."
This was her cue, and she knew it. She only wished he wasn't so *angry*. Although she had figured that he would be hurt by her lack of visiting immediately following Those Two Weeks, she had also thought a simple explanation of her newfound feelings would explain that. She hadn't really imagined all the wounded pride and misplaced ego.
"I..." she said, and couldn't go on. Annoyed, she took a deep breath and gave it another go. "I-I-I-"
"Ahh, you really did meet that soddin' prat, didn't you? Spit it out, luv."
"I- I- I can't."
He shrugged, turned around, and continued on his way. She was going to lose him and, God, but it was going to be all her fault. This was no time for pride. Inhaling harshly, she opened her mouth and yelled at his duster clad back, "I love you!"
Spike froze midstep. For a moment, pure elation flooded him and he grinned, actually bloody grinned in the middle of this tirade! His headache let up and it came to him in a flash
'I love you, William.' The words danced on his conscience and dampended his spirit. So this was it then. Dru, Harmony, and Cecily, he dared to suspect, had all wanted Spike, and sod all else. He had become Spike long ago, and now the Slayer loved William. She loved a man who no longer existed, a man he could no longer be, and the irony in that broke his heart.
"Guess you got the girl, Will," he thought, before saying outloud, "William is dead, pet."
"W-what?" Buffy stammered, caught off guard. This wasn't the reaction she had expected.
He turned around slowly and forced a smile. "Died in 1880, in case you missed the memo."
And then it all became clear to her. Spike actually thought she only loved half of him, a half that could no longer be. She knew deep down that he would settle for that, could tell by his sad smile that he was no longer going to leave, but she wasn't content with that. Now that the words were said, she felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She wanted Spike to *know*.
"When I came back from... when I came back, it was a second chance. You said so yourself. A gift."
Spike didn't comment. Instead, he kicked at the ground with his shoe. Her death still hurt.
"Well?" she pushed.
He looked up at her, surprised by the clarity in her eyes. His were filled with turmoil. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand or something equally William-like, but stayed perfectly still.
"It was a bloody amazing gift," he admitted.
"And me meeting William- meeting *you*- so was that. Don't you see? It was like a puzzle, only I couldn't find that missing piece. I didn't know what made you *you*. What made you be good, and you shut your mouth and don't deny it! What made you love Dru all those years and what makes you love *me* now. I needed to meet the man behind the demon, Spike, and on your own you only gave me glimpses. Plus, chaining me to a wall? I'd prefer poetry any day."
She smiled wryly and looked up at Spike. He was staring at her, eyes filled with utter amazement. Her smile grew and she took a tentative step towards him.
"What are you saying, luv?" he asked, nervously.
"I think I already said it."
"Say it again."
Shyly, she murmured, "I love you, Spike. I love all of you."
He let out a gigantic whoop then, and grabbed her about the waist. Cool lips collided with warm ones and she held onto him tightly. He explored her freely, let go by her acceptance. Eventually, he let her come up for air.
Tentatively, they stared at each other, before Buffy reached down and gave his ass a good, hard swat, effectively killing the mood.
"What was that for?!" he asked, rubbing his posterior and smirking.
"I've wanted to do that *forever*!" she cried, giggling, "Those jeans, Spike, you are such a tease. I wanted to do that *so* bad the night those vampires jumped you! Oh, and you lost that bet by the way. You owe me big!"
Spike rolled his eyes. "They had an unfair advantage. Snuck up on me from behind."
"Whatever."
"Are you ever going to tell me what the hell happened? I think I deserve to know whether or not I should stake myself."
Buffy giggled and launched into a full and detailed account of all that had occurred, excluding only her dance with William as she had decided that now was not the place to tell him. By the end of it, Spike was reconsidering his decision to stay in Sunnydale.
"So Xander knows I wrote poetry?"
"Yup," Buffy said, and felt a small pang of pity.
"Oh bloody hell."
She laughed and took his hand, pulling him in the direction of her house.
"C'mon, I'm cold, let's go home. And I mean both of us. Your crypt isn't, uh, exactly liveable right now. Not that it ever was, of course."
She smirked up at him and he couldn't help himself. He leaned down and gave her one of the most ravishing kisses he could muster. Buffy was suitably breathtaken, but Spike looked confused.
"Slayer," he began, scratching his head, "not to totally rain on our little parade here but... errr... did I shag a woman in a blue dress?"
The Slayer's horrified gasp echoed throughout the cemetary.
THE END
(Sorry for the unnecessary amount of corniness in this chapter. It is late.)
