CRADLE

Disclaimer, etc. as on first chapter.
Further disclaimer:
The poem used in this chapter is "The Sick Rose" by William Blake, in his "Songs of Experience" collection. I figure Blake would have been one of the Romantic poets our William might have aspired to be. The image of Spike on the balcony, just a floating head, is pretty much stolen from the remake of "Nosferatu", whereby the eponymous vampire was dressed solely in black and only his head was visible. That's about all I can say without spoiling the chapter, but it'll make sense when you get there…
A/N: See, told ya this'd be here faster. It's also a lot longer than the last one, to make up for prior crappiness, and because my SpikeMuse is rambling at a rate of knots… And, voila! The moment/s you've all been waiting for - Giles' letter to the Scoobies, and - finally - the Buffy/Spike Conversation. It's an angst chapter. But I just watched all the episodes from "Beneath You" through to "Potential" in one sitting (for the first time…), and my angst factor has risen to Titanic proportions. But hopefully there'll be some fluff to compensate… (If Spike comes off as slightly unhinged, blame Season 7. I guess it works, though, because souled Spike is souled Spike, and I might as well use what I've got…)

Also, I remembered partway through this that Buffy didn't actually know about Spike's poet-past - after all, it doesn't seem to be anything he's particularly proud of - which, unfortunately, completely frells up my idea. So, for the purposes of this fic, let's all just assume she found out somehow. Maybe he told her, or something. :P

As I mentioned, this will be the penultimate chapter. I'm glad, since this thing has been torturing me since last July. On the other hand, I've rather enjoyed writing it, so keep your eyes out for the upcoming Buffy/Farscape crossover, coming once I've finished this, by order of my co-writer, who has been prodding me to finish so we can get started. I still don't know how this is going to end, but rest assured I'll think of something, or wait for something to hit me on the head and tell me what to do. Chapter 30 will be the end; I may leave it open for a sequel, but if not, "Cold Trust" and "Dawn's Prom Night" are both set after this fic, so… they'll do for sequels for now :)

(I've subtitled this one "Conversations with Undead People" and may or may not go through and title each of the chapters in a similar manner. We'll see. That one just seemed apt…)

Enjoy. Reviews are welcomed as always…

Cradle

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The letter, as anticipated, was long, but partially only because of Giles' large handwriting. None of them had ever really seen it before, and all four of them took a long time merely admiring it before Xander read it aloud. His script was slanting, slightly jumpy from having written the beginning on the plane and it being the tenth draft, and he was, of course, one of those people who made sure to dot all his 'I's and cross all his 'T's. The wording was formal, because that was how Giles was used to writing, but personal for each of the recipients in its own way.

"Okay. Shall I read it?" asked Xander. The three girls nodded encouragingly. He cleared his throat theatrically, skimmed through the pages to check how long it really was, and began.

"Dear friends,

"I don't know where to begin. I've written this to save Buffy having to explain anything. There's so much I have to say that I couldn't inflict upon her to do so. Besides, at least a letter, one can keep; the spoken word is confined to one's memory, and I want this to be a fresh reminder whenever you want it.

"As Buffy has doubtless told you - or, as you've doubtless noticed - I am remaining in England. Mind you, every time I say that, something tries to end the world and I end up coming back to help you, so I'm sure I won't remain there forever." (Here, they all smiled.) "I know this is probably difficult for you to accept, but you must believe me when I say it has been a terribly difficult decision to come to, and that this letter will, I hope, attempt to explain my reasoning.

"First of all, you must understand that it's not because of anything any of you might have done. It's not something I've been planning since I arrived; in fact, the idea only struck me as I was buying mine and Buffy's tickets. I will admit, however, that I acted before thinking, and then tried to rationalise it. Luckily, I've realised that it is the best decision.

"You all need to learn to live without me. I think you know that. I'm not always going to be around to help you when things get difficult - apocalypses, of course, being exceptional circumstances - and the sooner you get along without me, the better. I'm always just a telephone call away, as you know. Keep in touch, by all means; I'll try and visit for your birthdays and Christmas - and Dawn's prom, naturally - just so you know I'm not completely cutting myself off from you. I love you all, and I will miss you, but this is for the best."

Xander noticed that both Dawn and Anya had started to tear up slightly, so he stopped. He was feeling emotional himself as it was, and took a breather to regain some control over his already wavering voice. Willow was staring at her hands, her face obscured by her hair as her head bowed, but she was probably close to tears as well. "Should I carry on?" he asked.

Dawn wiped her eyes, annoyed with herself. "Yes." Anya confirmed this with a nod of her own, as did Willow. Xander put his free arm around Anya (mainly because she was on his left, at the end of the couch), and Willow leaned her head on his other shoulder, following the letter silently as he read it out. Dawn snuggled closer to Willow; together, they managed to take up only half of the couch as they huddled, and, with their combined strength, Xander continued.

"I'll start by explaining why I couldn't tell you before I left. It was, simply, because I knew you would try and make me stay, and I also knew that, faced with all of you, I probably would have given in. Saying goodbye gets more difficult every time, not easier. And for purely personal, selfish reasons, I admit, it was only Buffy that I wanted to bid farewell. I didn't get a chance either of the last two times.

"This letter is, collectively, an explanation, and a goodbye. I will, however, say a few words to each of you individually. As someone is doubtless reading this out to the group, I'll try not to embarrass anyone. I've also resorted to pulling your names out of a hat to decide which order to go with, because if I go chronologically, alphabetically, or any other way, I'll inadvertently upset someone. So. At random…"

He'd started a new page at this point, for neatness' sake, and Xander paused again. "Are we ready?"

"Uh-huh." That was Willow; Anya and Dawn quickly nodded their affirmation. Xander placed the read pages to the back, and cleared his throat again.

"Dawn, you're first."

"Wow. That makes a change," she said, smiling. Her expression turned serious again as she added, "Go on…"

"Right…

"Dawn… I don't know where to start. As the youngest in the group, I suppose we all feel committed to protecting you. But, as you showed me in the basement, your skills would seem to prove you can protect yourself. Keep practicing, keep learning, and I know you'll be a worthy fighter alongside your sister. (And now for the obligatory paternalistic rant - do your homework. Even trainee Slayers need an education.) I realise this is horrible for you - you and Buffy both are like daughters to me - but you have enough male role models in your life without me. There's Xander, for one" - here, the accused grinned to himself before continuing - "and there's Spike, who, with any luck, will be around for a long time to come. As already stated, I'll be back for your Prom, and your graduation - there's your reason for doing your homework - because I wouldn't miss it for the world.

"Always remember, no matter what happens, your sister loves you, and so do I. Should you ever need to call me, kindly remember that there's at least six hours time difference, and even stuffy British ex-Watchers need their beauty sleep on occasion."

Dawn was sniffling by this point, but managed to laugh at his dry humour nonetheless. Xander realised Giles had thoughtfully put each individual letter on a separate page, and handed Dawn hers. She grabbed it, and re-read it a few times while Xander went through the others.

"Willow, first of all, I need to give you some bad news, for which I apologise. I spoke to Vivianne about your magic predicament, and I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. I'll continue researching now I'm back here, and I promise, as soon as I know anything, I'll tell you. But enough of that for now, because all I can offer you is strength and hope. You're strong now, Willow, and I know you can get through it on your own, and with the help of your friends.

"Whether you realised this or not, I want you to know that I was never angry with you over what happened over the summer. You got addicted, but you managed to get yourself off magic; what happened at the Magic Box wasn't entirely your fault, either. Grief makes people do insane things. Which brings me nicely onto my next admittance. I've forgiven you - all of you, in fact - for the decision to bring Buffy back. Even though we know where she was, now, I don't think any of us could have carried on much longer without her. She may still be hurting, but… well, perhaps she and Spike can make the pain go away, together. I'm going off on rather a tangent. Getting back to you, Willow - yes, I forgive you, and I'm glad you've realised that magic isn't the only way to get things done. You resisted the no doubt overwhelming urge to repeat the spell on Tara, and I'm proud of you for that. If your powers return, I'm certain you'll use them wisely."

Willow, teary-eyed, was handed her letter. She was glad she'd been forgiven, but felt awful at the same time. Giles didn't know she'd tried to resurrect Tara, right after she'd died, and she'd been too scared to tell him so after the way he'd reacted to their bringing Buffy back. She needed to call him, as it was, to tell him the good news about her powers - although it would take some explaining, of course - so maybe, just maybe, she'd get around to telling him that part of the story, too.

Xander looked at the following page. "Next one's for Spike. Better wait til he's back."

Anya, however, was insatiably curious. "C'mon, Xander. Just skim it…"

He sighed, but complied anyway. "Uh… know you love Buffy, yada yada yada, could grow to trust you, yada yada yada, please make her happy… That's pretty much it."

"Wow," said Dawn. "Coming from Giles, that's…" She couldn't think how to explain it.

"That's… so Giles-y…" said Willow, then explained. "I mean, he's always known what's best for Buffy… and he's never really liked Spike. He's practically giving her away… in a non-married, non-father-y sense. I guess if Giles is good with the whole Spike thing, then Buffy can go ahead and love him without fearing the Wrath of the Watcher."

"Or the Wrath of the Scoobies," admitted Xander.

"Hey, I would've been fine with it," said Dawn. "No Wrath of Dawn."

"Enough with the Wrath," interjected Anya. "Who's next?"

Xander put Spike's letter to one side to give to him later. "Me," he said.

"Xander. I think we covered most of our 'problem' in the car the other night. You've been through a lot, just like everyone else, but hopefully your success at saving the world has made just some of the wrong seem right. I know you've still got things to work through with Buffy, but I'm sure, between you, you'll manage it. A seven-year-old best friendship like that is not easily shattered, and if you can look beyond the distrust and the past mistakes, you'll be able to get back that harmony I remember from the good old days. Good luck with Anya. I know you can sort out your differences and be friends again, if not in love. Be patient with her; she might not show it outwardly, but she's hurting inside as much as the rest of you.

"Finally, I am hereby promoting you to take care of Dawn - should she need it; after all, she's growing up - and be there for Buffy and Willow. Even with Spike around, you're outnumbered by the womenfolk. Be Alexander, the Great Protector. If that's too much to ask, be Xander, the Man, like I know you can be."

Xander smiled to himself, muttering, "Love ya, Giles…" and folded his letter to put in his pocket. "I guess that just leaves you, An. I'm guessing if he writes to Buffy it'll be in the mail."

"Saved the best 'til last," she said, smiling somewhat smugly.

"It was random, Anya…" explained Dawn, the 'duh' implied.

"That's what he said…" she answered, implying it wasn't random in the slightest. Xander intervened quickly, clearing his throat before reading the final letter.

"Anya, Anyanka, whatever you prefer, I'm sorry I had to leave. Believe me, the Magic Box will be fine without me, as it has been before, and so will you. Like Xander, I wish you the best of luck in rebuilding your relationship and trust. I think I know you both well enough to predict that you'll be absolutely fine, eventually. Any friendship that can last through an apocalypse is one that can last through anything life throws at it. Don't shut yourself off from those who love you. They've all got problems, but it doesn't make your own any less significant.

"You may be a vengeance demon again - sorry; justice demon - but… try not to wreak havoc. Diplomacy works far better, especially for an aspiring businesswoman like yourself. And for goodness' sake, let Xander move back in. Buffy's house is crowded enough already."

She laughed. Xander handed her the paper and gave her an expectant look. "I'll… think about it," she said. It wasn't a 'yes', but it was close enough. He smiled. "So is there any more?"

"Uh… just final words…"

"That, I believe, is it. Tell Buffy I look forward to her letter. Telephone calls from any of you will always be appreciated to keep me up to date on the occurrences on the Hellmouth, even if it's just a patrol report. I might even give this modern technology a go and get myself an email address. I may be here by choice, but it doesn't mean I'm not going to miss you all terribly. I always swore that if I ever had children, I'd want them to be exactly like you. I've lately come to the decision that I don't need to; I have you - my children-that-never-were, and the best friends anyone could ask for.

"I was never any good at ending letters. I'll finish this by saying:

"Goodbye, but not forever,

"Your Grown-Up Friend (not in a scary way), Giles"

The room fell into silence. Somehow, the fact that he'd still signed it off with his surname wasn't strange in the slightest. He'd always been 'Giles'; never Rupert, never both names together. Willow smiled to herself at his sign-off, since he'd remembered her own wording over six years ago. Nearly all of the Scoobies were sniffling, Xander included, and none of them said a word. There was really nothing else to say.

The Bronze…

Sunnydale's only nightclub was shut, despite the relatively early hour. Buffy figured that would make searching for Spike a lot easier, though, since there'd be nobody else there; it would make their conversation more private, too, since they wouldn't be shouting over the crowds. This place held memories for them, too. The end of Sweet's spell, for one, when they'd kissed in the alley behind the building to the final refrain of her friends' song. And then there was the night after Willow's memory spell - Buffy made a mental note to have a word with her about her spells-that-went-wrong, since they always seemed to end up with her kissing Spike.

She found the fire door ajar - either a coincidence, or Spike's own access point - and she stepped into the dimness. The only light came from the streetlights outside, vaguely illuminating the area by the open door, which creaked as she pushed it further open in an attempt to lighten the interior. The high windows let in some of the moonlight, but not enough to make a difference. That was when she spotted him. He was up on the catwalk - another place of decidedly bad memories - and only his head was visible, reflecting the moonlight and giving him that same ethereal appearance as in her dream all those nights ago. The rest of him, clothed in black as usual, vanished into the darkness. If he'd sensed her, he didn't make it obvious.

Buffy made her way to the steps at the opposite end of the catwalk to him, giving herself a few more seconds of thinking space. As she ascended, her footsteps echoed dully off the metal. Spike came into view, head-first, most of him still obscured by dark; he was leaning on the railings, his hands clasped, staring dead ahead.

She stopped at the top of the steps. What to say? It was impossible to gauge his mood when he was in profile, other than the fact that he was clearly thinking. It seemed to be more a case of what to do to get his attention. The best option seemed to be a light-hearted approach. She cleared her throat. "Y'know… if you wanted to dance, the music's better at home."

He didn't answer, but finally turned his head to look at her, and from his position, he surveyed her. They looked remarkably similar, if they did but know it. She glowed in the light, all pale skin and light hair framing her face, like an angel. Her body from the neck down was completely obscured by his duster, even her hands as she hugged it around herself. His Buffy, the Slayer, all that was good and pure and against-all-evil, was standing there wrapped in the trademark of a self-confessed and once-proud killer. She was beautiful and deadly, and all the more dangerous for it. Spike found her suddenly irresistible - she was the epitome of Slayer-gone-bad, as he'd dreamed once, a long time ago - but just as quickly, he was disgusted with himself for thinking it, and nauseated by himself, by his prized trophy, for tainting her. He looked away again with a ragged breath, and began to mutter something. She had to strain to hear him, but identified it as a poem instantly.

"O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy."

His voice was surprisingly light, his Cockney accent oddly missing; in its place was what she could only assume his native accent had been - well-bred and English, nervous, innocent. She wondered if the cocky-London-Spike-voice was an act after all, but, hopefully, they'd have time to discuss that later.

"Wow…" she said. "Was that a William the Bloody original?"

He smiled. "No…" When he turned to look at her again, the smile reached his eyes in fondness for her literary ignorance, and when he spoke again, the gentleman she'd heard was gone. "If it was, I wouldn't be here now, I reckon. It's William Blake's, that one…"

"Right…" She knew he had to have recited it for a reason, but the analysis could come later. Right now, they had a Conversation to get through. "You know we need to talk, Spike."

"Yeah." It was resigned to the degree that she wanted to give up, as well.

"Look, I don't want to either, but-"

"So let's not bother," he said, suddenly, more animated than she'd seen him all night. His raised voice startled her slightly, and he could tell, so he lowered it again. "Buffy… talking isn't our thing. We both know that."

"Maybe it wasn't before," she explained. "But if we want this to work - and God, I want this to work - then talking is going to be mandatory. So I figure we should start now."

He sighed, and sought out a table, collapsing into one of its chairs and burying his head in his hands. "Talking uproots pain," he said, refusing to meet her gaze for the third time that night. "Memories, an' all. Of what I did to you." This time, when he looked up, she saw unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "I don't think I can go through that again… don't think I can make you go through it…"

She fought back tears of her own, reminding herself instead how infuriating he could be sometimes. "You think it'll be a day at the park for me? This is going to be tough on both of us, but it needs to be done." She sat opposite him; as she grasped his hand, she remembered she'd forgotten to tell him the good news, but supposed the lack of electricity in their touch would be explanation enough. "I hurt you more, Spike. Way more. But if we don't get it out of the way and behind us, all that hurt is just going to fester and… and I don't want anything to ruin what I know we can achieve."

He nodded, sniffing, blinking back the tears. "Where do we start, then?"

She let go of him and raked both hands through her hair. "Ugh, I don't know…"

"S'pose I should explain the poem…" Buffy nodded, although she was pretty sure she knew what it was in aid of. A little prod in the right direction would ascertain if she was right or not, though. Spike repeated it, faster and with less performance, to remind her. It looked like he was going to give her a lengthy explanation, which indicated he'd been thinking about it too much lately, but decided against it, and simply explained, "You're the rose, pet."

"Yeah, I got that…"

"Which makes me the worm. The parasite; that's all vampires are, really. Eatin' away at people and life until there's nothing left. My love's destroyed you…"

Buffy tried to reassure him as best she could. She'd realised the poem summed up their relationship, but not in quite the annihilistic way that Spike had interpreted it. "You're not a parasite… and yeah, okay, so what we had was a secret from everyone, but it didn't destroy either of us. I'm not destroyed."

"But-"

"I'm not." Her hand found his again, squeezing it. "And even if I was, it wouldn't be down to you. C'mon, Spike. If I can admit it to myself, you have to as well. I was self-destructo Buffy for way too long and I just dragged you along for the ride."

"Doesn't excuse it," he said, only half-listening. He'd worked himself up into rambling apologies, unable to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Buffy. Never, ever wanted that."

"I-I know." She bit her lip, hoping her next words came out as sincerely as she wanted them to be. "I forgive you. You know that, right?" He was looking at the table again, and she could only convince him if she could look him in the eye. She lifted his chin with her free hand, and repeated it. "I forgive you." There were the tears again, as he stared at her with those big eyes of his. This time, it was she who had to look away, down at the table he'd been finding so interesting. "I guess I deserved it, after everything I-"

"Don't ever say that." His adamant tone caused her to instantly look up again; his eyes had widened almost comically, shocked she could even think that had been his reasoning. "You already apologised for the usin', love. And I'd already forgiven you… so many times. I don't know why I… did that… tried to do that…" He gave up trying to give his actions a name, realising they didn't deserve to be called anything human. "But I do know it wasn't revenge. And for the record, neither was what happened with Anya."

Buffy had nearly forgotten that. "But I thought-"

"You thought wrong. She and I already chatted that out, while you were gone, and we've agreed it was a mistake, but it happened for a reason, and it needed to happen. I know it can't be taken back, Buffy, but…"

"It's okay. I don't…" She was going to say 'care', but it sounded too harsh, under the circumstances. "I… I get why it happened. I probably would've done the same thing. Although, uh, obviously not with Anya…"

That managed to raise a smile. "I was surprised you didn't," he said.

"So was I…" she admitted. "I guess it would've hurt you more that it hurt me… and let's face it, I wasn't exactly trying to make your life easier back then."

Spike seemed to search her face for a moment, and Buffy wondered what she'd just said that could mean so much. Finally, he asked, "So… so it did hurt you, then? Me and Anya?"

A memory returned unbidden to her brain, of Willow tapping into the camera and herself and Xander watching the live footage like a pair of masochistic voyeurs, unable to look away, hoping it was a trick. She blinked painfully, trying to rid herself of the residual image, and then focussed her attention back on present-day Spike. He was being patient, in itself an indicator of exactly how much he'd changed since he returned. Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it did. A lot more than I thought it would."

Some part of him was pleased, but it wasn't the time. Buffy was reliving that pain, and he had to make it up to her. "That wasn't my intention," he said. "Anya was just on a vengeance kick and I was convenient."

That sounded too familiar. Then, Buffy remembered telling him the same thing and felt horrible. She'd been remembering, randomly, all the things she'd said to him the past year, but some things she'd forgotten. Things that seemed petty, but that she now realised must have scarred deeper than most of the physical blows she'd inflicted. He'd forgiven her too easily; she still felt the need to apologise for everything. "You weren't convenient," she told him. His expression told her that Anya probably would have told her differently, so she explained, "Not then. When we… the first time. When I said you were convenient… You weren't."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say that wouldn't sound contrived, so he said nothing. Buffy's sincerity constantly threw him for a loop. He hoped his thankful expression was enough, and continued with his explanation. "I… I did go there for a spell…"

"You wanted it to stop…" she muttered, paraphrasing what he'd said to her in the bathroom.

"I wanted it to stop," he repeated, confirming it. His chest felt tight, although it had no reason to, and he swallowed. "You know, I never realised loving someone could hurt so much. Yeah, it hurt with Dru… but she was sadistic as well as insane. It doesn't count. But with you…"

"I'm sorry for making it worse."

He shrugged to imply it didn't matter, although she wasn't buying it. "Par for the course, love."

At this point, their conversation stopped. There were only so many apologies one could make, and only so many things to be forgiven for. Silence fell, as they stared at each other from either side of the table, trying to figure out if there was anything left to say. Of course, there was plenty they could talk about, plenty of past hurt and regrets, but they'd be there all night, and Buffy was beginning to want to end the conversation and get to the good part.

"So…" she said, after a while. "We've covered 'I'm sorry', we've covered 'I forgive you'… I think we're done."

Spike was about to say something, but faltered, realising what she'd actually said. "We're done?" he asked, trying to stop the smile that was threatening to break out.

She nodded, slowly. "Well, as done as we're gonna be. I do kinda wanna get home at some point tonight…"

Spike was all-too-willing to agree with her, but something still didn't feel right. In truth, the discussion hadn't been as hideous as he'd imagined it would be, but he couldn't help feeling as though they'd gone through it all for no purpose. What was missing? He stared intently at the Slayer, trying to work it out. Then, it hit him, and he felt like an idiot for forgetting.

"Me, too," he said, "but I think we've got one more thing to talk about."

"Really?" She seemed disappointed, having had the prospect of her warm bed postponed momentarily.

"Mm." He grasped both of her hands on the table-top, pondering how to phrase his next words. "We've sorted the past mistakes… but I'd like to have some idea of what's going to happen now…"

"Oh." Her voice was practically inaudible. She'd known this would come, eventually. In theory, telling Spike what she knew he wanted to hear should have been easy, since she'd done it once; in practice, now she wasn't almost going to die, it was twice as difficult. "Guess I owe you that, huh?"

He fought back a scream of exasperation and conceded to roll his eyes instead. "Buffy… you don't owe me anything. I just want to know where I stand, is all." When she didn't immediately answer, he let go of her, and stood, resuming his original place near the railings. "I need to know what I am to you, now. Your friend? Lover... no, scratch that; ex-lover? Neutered pet vampire with too much of a conscience for his own good…?"

Buffy turned in her seat to look at him, and wondered when she'd managed to destroy him to this much of a degree, and how much of his current, residual self-hatey state was down to the soul, and how much was purely because of her actions the past year. It wasn't a ratio she was particularly driven to working out. They'd talked through their emotional problems, but it would take a lot to erase all the mess in Spike's brain. She was beginning to think she wasn't strong enough, and felt awful for it; she'd caused it, after all, so she should have been able to fix it. But no. Buffy had broken things as a child, and it had been her Mom who put them back together. She'd give anything right now to have that liberty again.

He'd said she didn't owe him anything, but he was wrong. She owed him plenty, for everything he'd done, and everything he'd given her. She'd been a mess herself, when she'd come back, and Spike had been there, fixing her. She owed him that much: fixing him in return.

Fighting against tears as she realised it fell down to her alone, Buffy placed a hand in the small of his back. "Spike…"

He turned; he saw the tears in her eyes, but knew better than to mention it, or to work out what (or who) they were for. She said nothing else for the moment, merely searched his face, staring up at him from her position in the chair. "I mean it, Buffy," he told her. "It's your call. It always has been."

Screw being strong, she thought, as the tears tracked down her cheeks against her will. She couldn't be strong and be honest at the same time. "Don't you remember…?" she asked. "Don't you remember what I said, at the building site?"

"Yeah." He sighed, resignedly. "It's not that I don't believe you. I want to… but I know it was just a spur-of-the-moment, might-not-come-back-alive thing, and I know how that can do funny things to a person's emotions. I'm not holding you to anything." He moved a stray lock of hair out of her face with one hand, but moved out of her space afterwards. "I know we can be friends."

"It's not enough for you…"

"Maybe not," he admitted. "But if it's enough for you, then I'm willing…"

Why the Hell was he being so stubborn and blind? Couldn't he see what she was getting at? Well, Buffy was beginning to doubt her own coherency by this point, so she was entirely sure Spike was on the right tracks on his side of the conversation, judging by what she'd given him. It was time to start making sense, to the best of her mind's ability at the moment. She grabbed onto both of his hands, and pulled, forcing him to kneel at her level so she could see his face. He gave her a questioning expression.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

To Spike's credit, he covered his shock and minor amusement remarkably well, considering, while Buffy's mind was screaming, What the Hell was that?! at her. Randomly, she suddenly realised how expressive his face could be, as he managed to cycle through confusion, consternation, irritation, and, finally, sincerity, without saying a word. "I don't know how you can even ask me that," he said, quietly, without a hint of any bitterness. "You know I love you. I always will, Buffy; and you know that, too."

She nodded, relieved for a reason she couldn't fathom. "So you say you love me, but you're happy being my friend?" His entire demeanour radiated disappointment as he nodded back at her. She'd finally managed to stop the flow of tears, luckily, and fixed a nervous, half-smile on her face instead. Carefully, she knocked a fist lightly on the top of his head, twice, to imply its hollowness, and left her hand resting there with the palm flat. "Did that soul make you crazy as well as broody?"

He raised an eyebrow at her change in tone (and, more likely, at her 'broody' comment.) "Probably… Not entirely sure what you're gettin' at, love…"

"I noticed." She rolled her eyes, then trailed her hand from the top of his head to his cheek, tracing the side of his face, and making sure he wouldn't look away from her as he'd been apt to do all evening. "If it's not obvious yet, we already are friends. And if you want to know what you are to me, well, here's a list for ya: friend; life-saver; confidante; partner - in fighting evil, in fighting each other, in protecting my friends, in patrolling… and I got a whole bunch more where they came from. That isn't what counts; what does count is what I want you to be for me, what I think you could be, what I've seen behind your eyes. You're not a 'thing'. You're not a monster-"

He interrupted. "'M not a man, either…"

She moved the hand on his cheek slightly, reassuringly. "Maybe not… but you have a heart greater than most men do, and you've let me rip it out on more than one occasion, when putting a stake through it would probably have been more humane for the both of us…" Her free hand moved to his chest, in a silent gesture of returning it as well as reassuring physical contact, and that hand, too, stayed where it landed. She could've sworn she felt something beating beneath his skin, even though it was impossible. "And, not meaning to damage your Big-Bad-y pride, but… you've changed. I don't see a vampire when I look in your eyes. I see you, Sp…" She stopped. Surely Spike was the vampire she was claiming not to see? She repeated it, changing her mind. "I see you… William."

At the use of his given name, he closed his eyes painfully. Partially, he remembered the last time she'd used it, when she'd told him it was over between them. But apart from that, he didn't feel worthy of the name any more, and especially not when it was coming from her lips. "I'm not William. Not any more. He wouldn't do the things I've done. He wouldn't try to… to make you love him with violence and psychological warfare. No, William'd regale you with poetry and pretty language and chivalry. You can't even begin to compare me to him."

"Look at me, dammit…" He obliged, opening his eyes again. "I can compare, Spike, if that's what you'd rather be called. And I don't know if you noticed, but you were pretty much one with the poetry yourself, earlier." She sighed, despairing of him. "William is still in there somewhere, and you may not see it, but I do."

He was silent, completely unable to think of how to answer. Buffy searched his face, seeing his conflicting emotions and confusion. She muttered 'Screw it…' to herself, and, before he could react or realise what she was doing, she leant forwards and kissed him. At first, he froze, not quite able to believe it; then, he was kissing her back, softly, still a little unsure of whether or not even that was allowed. Buffy let his coldness take over, numbing her rambling thoughts where they stood, until she was sure she could say precisely what she wanted when next she spoke.

She let Spike be the one to pull away, and when he did, it was too soon. He seemed to think so, too, and resembled someone who was giving up on an addiction for their own good, despite the after-effects. He stared at her. Had that really just happened? He touched her face, ascertaining whether or not she was real. "Buffy…"

"Sh…" she said, before he could ruin it by asking questions. It was time to put this particular emotional demon to sleep. "Spike… William… whoever the Hell you want to be… I love you."

He blinked. It looked like he was anticipating a punch in the teeth to follow her words, and when nothing came except her nervous smile, if was as if he let everything go. Suddenly, he had his head in her lap and both arms wrapped around her waist, trying to stifle a series of noisy sobs, while she stroked his back and completely failed at not letting his emotional outburst get to her. Eventually, he quieted and lifted his head again, sniffed noisily, and adopted an apologetic expression.

"Sorry. I just… you… after everything…"

"I know…" she said, wiping her eyes irritatedly. "Now, let's go home, and figure out what to do with our lives…"

He nodded his vehement agreement to that suggestion and got to his feet, pulling Buffy out of her chair and into his arms, holding her tight against him as she returned the gesture. He buried his face into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "God, I love you…" He whispered it close to her skin, and it resounded through her body, from the brain down.

She pulled out of his arms, unwillingly, but knowing they couldn't spend the entire night where they were. "I love you, too. But can we please leave?" He smiled, and nodded; she led him out of the abandoned Bronze, and into the streets, heading back to the house. They walked hand in hand, silently, both of them thinking over the conversation they'd just had, Buffy especially wondering why it had taken so long for her to say three relatively simple words, but deciding it was worth it, in the end.

They'd reached Main Street, when she suddenly realised something. "Oh, Spike? I completely forgot. Your coat…"

They stopped walking and he looked down. "What about it?"

"I meant to thank you for lending it to me. It's really quite cosy, once you learn to ignore the smell of beer, smoke and demon entrails…" She gave him a smirk to imply she was only kidding; she wouldn't have his duster smell any other way. "Anyway, here…" She started to shrug out of it, but Spike's hands on her shoulders stopped her.

Off her quizzical look, he said, "Looks better on you, love."

"Liar…" That made him laugh, luckily, a sound which was refreshing after the night they'd had. "You know there's a box of cigarettes and your Zippo in the pocket, right?"

He'd divested her of the coat in two seconds flat and was immediately kneeling on the floor, rooting through the pockets, emerging triumphant from the folds of leather with a cigarette in one hand and his lighter in the other. He took the world's longest drag and breathed out. She giggled, the expression of relief on his face entirely too funny. She felt oddly vulnerable without the duster, though; it really was very good for making a person feel empowered, or simply for shrouding oneself in when the going got tough. It was hardly surprising Spike was emotionally fraught. The duster was like a spare body part to him.

He picked it up off the ground and brushed the dirt from it, then proceeded to carry it over his arm. She looked at him curiously. "You're not going to wear it?"

He shook his head. "Bad memories."

She sighed heavily, pulled it from him, and held it aloft. "Arm," she ordered. He complied, putting first one limb, then the other, through the arm-holes of the coat. Soon, he was adjusting it on himself, making himself comfortable, and relaxing into it. For a moment, he relished in the warmth it had retained from her body; Buffy stood back and looked him over with a nod, as he discarded the end of his cigarette into a nearby bush. "There. That's the Spike I fell in love with."

He rewarded her with the most radiant grin she'd ever seen him give, and reached out for her hand again. She blushed at herself, aware that words were flowing without her having much control over them, but no longer really caring. The rest of their walk back to Revello Drive passed in silence, as it had started. Buffy's problems, of course, were far from over - she still had to deal with her friends and their reaction to whatever Giles had written in the letter - but for the moment, at least, everything was finally right with the world.

To be continued…

A/N: I realise that this is, somewhat, the end. However, I've still got a few things to sort, so Chapter 30 will be the tidying-up chapter. Knowing me, that'll take me months of staring annoyedly at my computer screen until I finish it, so… yeah. If it takes ages to get here, think of this as the end ;)

Fluff! Shameless, shameless fluff! Such fun!!

Until then, review, review, review! And then review some more! You owe me after what I went through to get this monster of a chapter out :P