After a night of slaying with the Wiccas, the Whelp and the Watcher, he wanted nothing more than his bed, a drink and a fag - not necessarily in that order - but there was one other thing he wanted to do tonight.
He checked the sky. Morning was still a couple of hours away -- plenty of time to go visiting.
It was only a short way from his crypt to the quiet place beneath the willow tree. When he got there, he sat between the two graves in his accustomed spot, setting the axe down in easy reach -- just in case. He turned to the older plot first.
"Hello Mum -- it's me again. Got summat for you," he said, reaching into one of the large pockets of his duster. He pulled out a small nosegay of white clematis flowers he had found growing near the chaparral, and carefully laid them by the headstone. The Victorian gentleman he had once been had instantly recognized them, and knowing the language of flowers as did everyone of his class and time, immediately thought of Joyce. This was one time when that ponce William had come in handy...
"I know you probably think I'm layin' it on a bit thick, but it's the way I feel 'bout you. You always saw the man, not just the monster... which is pretty damn impressive, considering how we first met," he chuckled softly, remembering how the Summers matriarch had nearly brained him with a fire axe at Parent-Teacher Night.
"Good arm you had, I'll tell you... an' then there was the time I came back after Acathla, moonin' over Dru. I'll never forget how you did by me... makin' me a cuppa, when you knew I could've just made a snack out of you. You didn't even bat an eye... takes a hell of a woman to do that. An' then, icing on the cake, you started mothering me -- tryin' to show me the way the wind was blowing with me and Dru. I'm betting that's why you started tellin' me about your breakup... you saw the writing on the wall when I didn't, didn't you? But you knew I wouldn't listen if you told me straight out, so you tried a gentler approach - a mother's approach - with me. Bloody hell, Joyce, you were a rare gem... just like your girls." His voice caught slightly, and he paused long enough to light a cigarette before continuing.
"Honestly, luv, I've wondered if you had someone on the side whilst you were married," he grinned as he took a drag from his smoke. "Now don't get tetchy, it's just that it's the only explanation I've got for how you managed to produce two such smashing daughters, seein' as that pathetic git Hank's DNA couldn't have contributed anything worthwhile to the effort. I figure it's either that, or the inherent quality of your own genes was enough to overcome the wanker's own faulty breedin'. Knowin' you, I'd say it's the latter."
He smoked quietly for a few minutes.
"You know I'm lookin' out for Dawn. She's had a rough time of it - we all have - but she's one tough chit, just like her Mum and Big Sis. She's gonna be all right. I'll make sure of that. I promised Buffy before, but now I'm promising you. An' speaking of your eldest, Joyce, I'm off for a word with her now. I'll bring you up to date on Passions tomorrow. 'Night, Mum."
He finished his cigarette, and after stubbing it out on the grass, put the remnants into his pocket to throw away later. This was the one place in Sunnydale where he refused to litter. He turned to the other marker, smiling sadly.
"Hello cutie..."
He paused, remembering the first time he had said those words to her. Only four years ago it was, and now...
"I would've brought some flowers for you too, but what can I say? What I feel for your Mum's conveniently expressed with one bloody bloom - you're a much tougher proposition. But then, you always were."
His vision started to blur, but he set his jaw and stubbornly blinked away the tears before they could fall. He had cried enough on the day she was put in the earth, taking his heart with her.
"I'd need a sodding greenhouse to cover what I feel for you, Slayer -- blue violet, honeysuckle, myrtle an' green locust for starters, with white clover, coltsfoot and everlasting to round it out... and cedar. Almost forgot cedar. I might not be living, but I'm unliving and that's bleedin' close enough," he finished, muttering.
He smiled crookedly, imagining her response to his list, and answered.
"No, no roses. I used enough clichés when I was a pillock of a bloody awful poet named William, I'd prefer to avoid 'em now if you don't mind... YES, I wrote poetry when I was human - really, really bad poetry, but poetry nonetheless."
Pausing briefly, he resumed the imaginary conversation.
"No, that doesn't exactly fit in with what I told you about my past, does it? But then, that's probably because what I told you was a bundle of half-truths, cobbled together with the odd white lie to save face. You want the truth, luv? Here it is, short form: know how the Tweedy One used to be Ripper? Turn that about, an' you have the real story of my unlife. It's no wonder that I went to so much trouble to leave the old me behind, is it? A bookish, deferential milksop hardly works as a vampire."
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"I told you once that the first time I felt truly alive was after I died. That was no lie, pet. Gives you some idea of how pathetic I was in my breathin' days... I lived my life strictly according to all the conventions of proper Victorian society, thinkin' that all I had to do to fit in was be the model of a gentleman," he said, sneering at the recollection.
"You can guess what happened... I got swatted like a bug for my trouble. Maybe if I'd actually had some taste when I chose the social set I aspired to, things could have been different - I could have been different. But no, I wanted to be a proper society bloke, I did -- the titled, moneyed set was the one I set my sights on. After all, I had enough cash and enough breedin' to qualify, right? What I couldn't see was that to that crew of arrogant inbred elitist twats, the only thing I qualified as was comic relief. It was a disaster. I was a disaster. But I kept at it, just the same. Thought that if I stuck it out, in time they'd come to see me - the real me - an' realize I belonged. After all, I didn't much care what most of 'em thought - just what one of 'em thought," he finished, his voice softening.
"Cecily was 'er name... one thing that's never changed about me as man or monster, Slayer, I've been love's bitch from the start. See, I made the mistake of writing a poem about her. That wouldn't have been bad, so long as I could've done it in private. Of course, I was stupid enough to write it whilst I was at a party with the whole bloody crew - and someone took it from me and read it aloud. I did mention how bad my poetry was generally, right? Well, this one was the ne plus ultra of my entire soddin' oeuvre... everyone in the place had a right good laugh at William, the Bloody Awful Poet's expense. That was bad, but I could take public humiliation. I'd been doin' it with that crowd for long enough, after all... but everybody's got a breakin' point. Mine came just after that..."
He fidgeted, running his hands through his hair, working up the nerve to finish his story. After so many years, he shouldn't really care - he was a demon after all - but whatever remained of his human self still stung at the memory.
"See, Cecily took me aside. She had a question for me, 'and I demand an honest answer', she said. She asked if my poems were about her. And stupid berk that I was, I told 'er yes. She was horrified. I tried to reason with her, 'they're just words', I said. What mattered were the feelings behind them, and I told her so - I told her I loved her. That made things worse, if you can believe it - she went from horrified to shocked and horrified. I told her I knew I was a bad poet, but I was a good man, and if she'd just try to see me..."
He took an unnecessary breath, letting it out in a hiss of remembered pain.
"Know what she said, Slayer? 'I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me, William. You're beneath me.'"
His hands clenched, longing to hit something to relieve the tension caused by reliving his feelings. Although it had happened so long ago, the pain of his rejection was fresh even now.
"Yeah... déjà-vu much indeed, luv," he snarled through gritted teeth, then loosened his jaw to the point where he could speak normally again.
"I left the party in tears... ducked into a stable nearby where I could be alone, blubbering like an idiot. An' that's when Dru found me. She spoke to me, an' the things she said... she saw me, the way I'd always dreamed the others would. She made me an offer - an' is it any wonder I took it?"
Hands shaking, he fished for another cigarette, he knew he had an extra pack somewhere... then he felt something solid in his other duster pocket bump against his leg. Wrapped up in his memories, he had almost forgotten about the thermos Dawn had given him before he left for home. She had insisted, even though he had just eaten. 'It's not blood', she had said, and when he asked what it was, she had just hugged him and answered 'something else I think you need'...
Taking out the container, he opened it - and the aroma of hot chocolate wafted into the night air.
*Bloody hell... an' I thought Dru was psychic.*
His eyes grew damp again, and he smiled as he poured a generous portion into the mug that had served as an extra lid. He sniffed at the steaming liquid - Dawn had taken the trouble to make it the old fashioned way, with cocoa, sugar and hot milk. Though they had already melted, there were marshmallows in there too... as well as a healthy dose of the Watcher's good brandy. His smile became a grin.
*Ah Nibblet, how you spoil me.*
He took a long, slow sip, and savoured the taste. Joyce had definitely been right - there were plenty of ways to overcome emotional trauma, but chocolate in some form always helps. Another sip or two, and he'd pulled himself together enough to continue.
"So there you have it, pet -- the true story of William the Bloody. An' now you know why I showed up at your place with my trusty shotgun the night I taught you about Slayer-Slaying... one little phrase, and you managed to rip my heart out of my chest an' dance on it. You made me feel as weak and pathetic as I felt the first time I'd heard those words, Slayer, and right then I wanted nothing but to kill you for it."
His gaze grew distant, remembering the blinding rage that had brought him to her door. Oh, he had been ready - no, burning - to kill her that night. He had wanted to bathe in her blood and laugh as he watched her eyes glass over in death. He cocked his head toward her marker, as if acknowledging a point.
"Excellent question, luv... so why didn't I?"
Even now, it was difficult for him to express in words the sea-change he had undergone that night. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he broke the silence of the night once more.
"When I saw you sittin' there on the porch, all curled up around yourself, the look on your face... you looked like your world was just coming to an end. And because it was, you didn't much care what happened to you anymore..."
Closing his eyes briefly, he remembered how she had seemed - small. Though accurate enough literally, small was a word that had never before applied figuratively to the force of nature that was Buffy Summers.
"And I knew exactly how you felt, Slayer, because that was me after Cecily... an' that was me a hundred and twenty years later, when you threw her words back in my face. That night, I looked at you, and saw me... and when I did, all I could think was how miserable you were, an' why the bloody hell weren't any of your mates around for you when you needed 'em?" he finished softly.
He cradled his mug in his hands, looking into the thick liquid contemplatively before taking another sip.
"Love's a funny thing... see, I'd figured out how I really felt about you 'bout a fortnight before. I'd realized that I loved you, I just wouldn't - couldn't - accept it. It was your partin' shot in the alley what finally made me see the truth. Tore me to shreds at the time, but once I'd thought it through, it made sense. If I hadn't loved you, hearin' you say those words wouldn't have hurt so damned much... wouldn't have made me so bloody furious either. Obvious, innit? But I didn't see it until I was standin' in front of you, ready to splatter you across the side of the house."
After a brief pause, he resumed his monologue with a derisive snort.
"If it didn't sound so bleedin' poof-like, I'd say I had an epiphany... so instead of blowin' you away, I put the gun down an' asked if I could help. Once I'd done that, I knew there was no goin' back for me."
Even as he finished speaking, he could envision exactly how she would have reacted to what he'd just said, and he gave an exasperated sigh in response.
"Yes, even when Dru came back - but let's not open that can o' worms tonight, ducks. There's only so much a bloke can take at a time, you know? 'Sides, I know bloody well when I've cocked up, I don't need remindin' from you."
*Not when I do such a fine job remindin' meself...*
Unbidden, the image of the fatal leap replayed in his mind yet again, as it had done so many times during the twenty-two - no, twenty-three - days since. His flashbacks were partially fuelled by his lingering guilt, but equally by his desire to remember his Slayer's last moments. Her vitality had always been at the core of his attraction to her, and she had never been so beautifully, terribly, gloriously alive than in her final act...
He had wanted to greet the sun that day. It would have been a fitting, even poetic end, him going up in flames when her own had been snuffed out - but she'd had other ideas.
*Trust Buffy to get the last word, even dead...*
Every day was still a struggle for him. For the most part, he went through the motions of his unlife half-heartedly, only coming out of his shell around Dawn, or whenever there was violence to be had. His behaviour had not gone unnoticed by the others, and many were the times he had caught sight, scent or sound of them about his crypt when they were trying to check up on him inconspicuously.
Their unexpected solicitude had warmed his dead heart, but even so, his resolve to keep going had come dangerously close to faltering a couple of times. When it had, he summoned to mind every detail of his last meeting with the Slayer, from her impatient anger (she always looked delicious when she was brassed off) to the gentle touch of her lips (velvety warmth, like the petals of a just-picked flower still warm from the sun - was that what a soul felt like?). Most of all, he remembered her final gift to him: the knowledge that in the end, she had seen and accepted him as a man.
She had exacted a promise from him - and what kind of man welshed on a promise made to the woman he loved?
Bringing himself out of his reverie, he freshened his drink and apologized.
"Sorry, luv - with all the broodin' I've been doing lately, you'd swear I was turnin' into the bloody Great Poofter himself... oh, all right, just put the lip back, an' I'll shut my gob about him and get back to business. After all, wouldn't be doin' my job if I didn't give you the latest on the Nibblet, would I?"
He sipped his chocolate, mentally reviewing the news before he spoke again.
"She just got her stitches out last week - no trouble, and practically no scarring - so she's all healed up now physically. Mentally, she needs time, like the rest of us. But honestly, I think she's dealing better than anyone else at this point."
A fond chuckle escaped from him as he remembered something that he was sure would have given the Slayer a rare smile.
"You know, one time when Dawn was hangin' about with me after your Mum passed, the way she was actin' reminded me so much of you, I called 'er Bitty Buffy. She is that, pet - showin' the Summers mettle through and through. It'll take a while, but I know she's gonna be all right, just like I told Joyce. I think part of the reason she's doin' so well is on account of what you told her before... well, before. She's really taken it to heart, an' it's really helped her - helped all of us."
He could feel the lump forming in his throat, and took a gulp of his drink to force it down.
"Anyway... she's just finished her second week of summer school, an' so far so good. Yeah, summer school - between the time she missed when your Mum was sickly and all, and the time she skipped when she was actin' out with that bollocks about not bein' real, she had to make up some work. Whilst I was laid up with my leg, we did some review together, an' she says it's been payin' off. Mind, she's a bright one, and she's really buckling to this time 'round. All she needs to do is keep it up, an' she'll be right with her mates in the next grade come autumn."
He really didn't know how to approach the next bit of news, seeing as his bad influence may have started the problem, but he took a deep breath and fired away.
"Um... I don't know how much you know about Dawn's kleptomaniac spree, but it's over. She's promised to stop shoplifting, and she's even returned most of the stuff she nicked. She told me it all started when she took a pair of Demon-girl's earrings an' it just went from there - didn't even know why she was doin' it most of the time. She knows she messed up, an' that she's bloody lucky she never got caught. Last thing she wants is to be shipped off to your wanker of a father, or worse, foster care - the silly bint never even realized that could've happened. Now that she knows, I doubt she'll be doin' that sort of thing again any time soon."
Pausing, he downed the rest of his cocoa, and gave a disgusted snort - then dove sideways, tucked into a roll and came smoothly to his feet with his axe at the ready, facing three vampires.
"Pathetic," he sneered, neatly decapitating the nearest one, then waded into the two remaining. Between the inexperience of his opponents and Spike's anger at being disturbed, the fight - such as it was - was over in short order.
"Bloody embarrassment to the species," Spike grumbled in annoyance, brushing off his duster, "soddin' cretins were too stupid to attack from downwind even..."
"Don't be embarrassed - they didn't know any better when they were alive either."
Spike knew that voice, and spun to face the speaker. She was sitting between the graves, directly opposite his original position, hands clasped over one bent knee.
"It's a little unfair to say they were stupid though," she said. "Ignorant, maybe. None of them knew anything about hunting when they were human, and as vampires, they were barely more than fledglings, poor things."
Despite his surprise at - and serious misgivings about - her sudden presence, he maintained his exterior cool. He was the Big Bad, after all...
Sauntering back to where he had been sitting earlier, he sank down on the grass with lazy grace to face Death.
"Suppose that's true enough," he drawled, resting his axe across his thighs, "though I never realized you cared enough about a few fledges kickin' it to put in a personal appearance."
"It's not a question of caring," she said, her dark eyes showing amusement at the vampire's affected nonchalance. "It's my job. People - or beings, if you like - die, I pick them up and bring them where they have to go. I always make a personal appearance."
"Really?" Spike said sharply. "Seems a bit strange then, that I never saw you once when I was livin' it up as a quarter of the Scourge of Europe - exceptin' the night Dru drained me, that is - an' now suddenly I've been so blessed twice in less than a month. Care to explain?"
"Sure," Death said, smiling as Spike blinked in surprise. "Usually only the one that I've come for can see me, but there can be exceptions. When Buffy died," she paused, noting his wince, "you wouldn't have seen me - or her, for that matter - if it hadn't been for the fact that she asked to talk to you before we left. After all, she wasn't about to just stand by while you killed yourself."
"Right," the vampire said grudgingly, his voice harsh, "that explains last time. So what brings you here now? Come to gawk at the freak show, have you?"
Death looked at him earnestly.
"In my experience, there's no such thing as a freak show - so the answer to your question is no. If you really want to know, you're what brought me here tonight," she said, gesturing toward the spot where the three hapless fledglings had once stood, "but the reason I stayed is right here."
With that, she reached behind her, and produced the mug and still-open thermos. Spike gaped at her.
"You dropped one and knocked over the other when you did your stop-drop-and-roll," she said calmly, emptying the thermos into the mug. "I managed to rescue them. Good hot chocolate should never go to waste, in my opinion."
Death proffered the mug to the vampire. Wordlessly, he took it from her, and gulped at the drink.
"Thanks," he said hoarsely.
"You're welcome," she replied, as she rose to her feet. "Until next time then, William."
"Wait!" Spike called out, grabbing at her wrist, "Please..."
Death looked at him expectantly, and Spike released his grip as he struggled with what he wanted to say. He had never voiced his secret fear to anyone. When awake, he was able to rationalize it, keep it at bay - but it tortured him in his sleep. Only Death could answer the question he needed to ask to relieve that fear, if she would...
"I know there's a Hell, so it stands to reason there's a Heaven," he began haltingly. "An' it doesn't take a bloody genius to figure out where she belongs... where she ought to be. But in the end, Buffy... Buffy killed herself. An' accordin' to most churches' laws, suicides are... I have to know if..." unable to finish, Spike looked to Death, his eyes pleading for reassurance.
"Buffy sacrificed herself to save her sister, and the world with her," Death said with a warm smile. "It's not the same thing at all - it's like the difference between scorning a gift and giving one. In the end, Buffy gave. There's no need for you to worry."
Shoulders shaking with relief, Spike let out a gasping breath.
"Thank God... I was afraid she... I kept thinkin' that maybe..."
"I know Dante was always a favourite of yours, but you can get the Seventh Circle out of your head. She isn't there - she's all right."
"Is she?" he demanded, his voice desperate. "I know it sounds like a bloody stupid question given what you just told me - no, I know it bloody well is a stupid question - but it got so bad before she died... I know I'll never see her again. I know you can't give me any details about where she is, what it's like... but please, tell me this: is she happy?"
At Death's nodded reply, the vampire was overcome. After weeks of being tormented with the dread that even after her death, his Slayer might still be suffering, the relief was indescribable.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You're welcome," she said, then much to his surprise, leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead.
"That's from Joyce. Take care, William."
Then as suddenly as she had appeared, Death was gone.
Setting his axe aside, Spike slowly stood. Looking into his mug, he saw there was still some chocolate left. He took one last sip, then with uncharacteristic reverence, poured the remainder onto the earth which covered the Slayer.
"Sleep well, love."
Retrieving the thermos and his weapon, he limped back to his crypt to
rest - and for the first time since Buffy's death, his sleep was undisturbed
by nightmares.
Meanings of flowers:
white clematis (also called virgin's bower) -- filial love
blue violet -- love
honeysuckle -- devoted love
myrtle -- love in absence
green locust -- affection beyond the grave
white clover -- I promise
coltsfoot -- justice shall be done you
everlasting -- always remembered
cedar -- I live for thee
Note: Dante Alighieri's Divina Commedia, written between 1306 and 1321, is an epic poem of redemption, telling the story of the author's journey through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise. In Canto XIII, the Seventh Circle of Hell is described as where those who have done violence to themselves are punished.