Buffy laughed as she lounged back on the blanket he had spread for their picnic, and looked at him expectantly. She was radiant, clad in a silky, long, white, slip-like dress that somehow looked demure and provocative at the same time. The golden hair that cascaded over her tan shoulders appeared almost silver in the moonlight, and she was relaxed - really relaxed - and free from care, as he knew she had not been since the night she was Called. He simply couldn't take his eyes from her...
Shaking her head and smiling as he continued to stare in silence, she extended one bare foot across the space between them and jostled his leg.
"Well?" she drawled.
That finally drew him from his contemplation of her, and he gave a small smile of his own.
"Sorry, love - it's just... I like lookin' at you."
"Sorta got that idea when I found your stash in the crypt before the manacle incident," she said.
Her voice was teasing, not accusatory, but even so he flinched and began to apologize.
"I didn't mean..."
"I know you didn't," she broke in softly. "Don't worry about it - it's not like it matters anymore. I shouldn't have been surprised by it though - it only figures your brilliant plans for seduction would follow your track record for brilliant planning in general. And no one ever accused any vampire of being down with the hearts-and-flowers sensitivity. But I get it now - what your intent was. And now that I've had a chance to think about it, the whole thing was actually pretty flattering, in a squicky sort of way."
She smiled at him then - an open, genuine Buffy-smile - and that combined with her tone of voice served to file down the barbs of her words, blunting them, making them playful rather than wounding. If his heart could beat, it would have swelled in his chest to have his Slayer joking with him, treating him as a friend and an equal - as a man, and not a monster.
"What I mean this time is that it's good seein' you so happy, Slayer."
She grinned.
"Good to be happy, Fang-face - it takes some getting used to, but I think I'm finally getting the hang of it. How about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you happy, Spike?"
"As I'll ever be, love."
Her face went solemn.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice rising.
"Just what I said - and you're so not distracting me with the display of temper. I, Buffy Ann Summers, rule at that little manoeuvre, and no man, woman or vampire can rival my supremacy. Plus, I know I tend to be self-absorbo girl, but I can be pretty observant when I want to be. I heard what you said, and I know you meant it exactly the way you said it. You're not happy - not really. But I'd hoped you might be by now, at least a little. You deserve that much."
"You don't know the half of what I deserve," he grated.
"You're right - I probably don't," she agreed mildly. "But the way I see it, averting a couple of apocalypses, killing a whole lot of Big Uglies, and letting a Hellbitch torture you for the greater good has to count for something - not to mention playing chaperone to Dawn and five friends at that N'Sync concert last month. I mean, that alone is penance for a multitude of sins."
"Not enough though, is it? An' it never will be enough! If it wasn't for me pullin' off the most stupendous bloody cock-up of my entire unlife, you'd still be alive!"
"Maybe, and maybe not. Slayer, remember? Short shelf life. If it wasn't that night on the tower, it would have been some other time, that's all."
"But it would have been later," he said, his voice breaking. "It would have been at least one more bloody day of you in the world... don't you know there's nothin' I wouldn't do, just to have had that much? Nothin' that the Nibblet, or your mates, or your Watcher, or my bloody great poof of a Grandsire wouldn't do either, just to have had one more day of you... an' the reason why you didn't get that one more day is me!"
"And I thought I had guilt issues," Buffy said with a sigh and roll of her eyes. "Look - I didn't die because of you, I died because a demon - who did not happen to be you - wanted to suck up to a Hellgoddess who was out to destroy the world. I died because the alternative was to let Dawn die, and I couldn't let that happen. I wasn't going to lose one more person I loved, so I made a choice. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't see how you had anything to do with either the choice Doc made, or the choice I made. It's not your fault."
"Fine! So it's not my fault - it still doesn't change the fact that you're dead! It doesn't change the fact that all I'll ever have of you now are memories and dreams - memories that can fade, and dreams that die every time I wake! It's different for the others - they've at least got the comfort of knowin' that one day, when the chit with the ankh comes by to pick 'em up, they might get to be with you again. Even Peaches has that much, if the prophets have got it right. I've got nothing..."
She reached out, touching his face, and he closed his eyes, leaning into her caress.
"Is this nothing? Dreams only die if you let them. And you have a part of me that no one else does."
He pulled back reluctantly, shaking his head in denial.
"I know what you're aimin' at, Slayer - but you're wrong. I've got nothing with Dawn that any of the others don't have. She likes the Whelp, looks up to Red, looks to Glinda like she did to your Mum - an' she even appreciates the way Demon-girl always tells it like it is."
"Yeah - but she likes you, she looks up to you, she listens to you, and she appreciates you. You've got the package deal. You're the first real friend she ever had. You were the first one to treat her like an adult - like she was her own person, and not just 'Buffy's little sister'. Do you have any idea how important that is to her? How important you are to her because of it? She cares about you, Spike. She doesn't want you to be miserable for the rest of your life - or unlife - and we don't want that either."
"'We'?"
"Me and Mom - she hopes you've found another Passions pal, by the way."
"Clem. It's not the same, though."
"Good - she'll be glad. What you two see in that show is beyond me, but anyway... we care about you too. We're not expecting you to suddenly be all Prozac-vamp or anything - we know you need time to work through what you feel - but we all want you to let yourself be happy again one day. Can you do that, Spike? Can you at least try?"
"I never could resist a Summers lady, so it's not bloody likely I could resist three of 'em," he said softly. "I'll do my best, love, but no promises - it's been so bloody long since I was happy, I'm not sure I remember how to be anymore."
"It comes back to you, trust me. Kinda like riding a bicycle," she paused, frowning. "Maybe not the best analogy, because I don't know if you've ever even ridden a bike, and honestly, I can't picture you on one - bike shorts, so not Spike. So okay, call it like any skill that you haven't used in a while - you just need some practice to get it back."
"Yeah? An' how am I supposed to practice bein' happy?"
"You keep doing what you're doing - fighting, pool-sharking, looking after Dawn, and helping to save the world every now and then."
Reaching over, she clasped his hand.
"You live, Spike."
He covered her hand with both of his, and began to draw it to his lips when the air that surrounded her began to glow, becoming brighter and brighter, until he couldn't see her any longer. He could still feel her though, and his lips just barely brushed her warm skin before he lost even the sensation of her hand in his, but her voice was clear.
"You live."
Her words were still sounding in his ears when he woke.
He'd often dreamed of her, but none before this had ever been so vivid, nor left him with such a bittersweet peace. Unlike the two women he had loved in his unlife, he wasn't subject to prophetic dreams, but he knew this one for the message it was.
Since he'd obtained the assurance of Death herself that his Slayer was truly at peace, he was no longer tormented by dreams of her suffering. But while the worst of his nightmares had gone away with that knowledge, he had still been bowed down by his guilt, his failure to protect Dawn at the one time that protection had been needed most. In his mind, his failure had caused Buffy's death just as surely as if he had thrown her from the tower himself. Since then, he had not lived - or unlived - he had merely existed, unable to move beyond his grief. He didn't want to move beyond his grief - but as before, dead or not, the Slayer had found means to make her will known.
*Always was a pushy little bint* he thought fondly.
*I could just see her goin' after the bloody Prince of Stories 'imself for the favour, too - an' his sister probably would've helped 'er. Dream owes 'is sis, from all I've heard...*
As if Buffy's acceptance of him as a man had not been gift enough, he now had the assurance that she cared for that man. She might not have loved him, but she cared about his well-being, cared if he was happy or sad.
It was more than he ever thought he'd have.
He lay still in his bed for some time, committing every detail of his dream to memory, another weapon in the arsenal to use against his depression. He wasn't sure if he could do what she wanted - what all his Summers women wanted - but as promised, he was at least going to try.
He rubbed his eyes, then turned the covers back and started to get up - but he stopped when he saw it. On his nightstand, the slim, leather-bound volume rested where he had left it the night before, too exhausted to face its pages and the memories that would flow from them.
He wasn't tired now.
Sitting up, he picked up the book with a trembling hand and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he did so.
It was faint, as he expected - but beneath the newer scents of Dawn and the witches, he could still detect the heady perfume that had been the Slayer's own. Just as he remembered it when she was alive, just as it was in his dream, her scent was of sunshine and vanilla and sweet spices and power, and he stifled a moan as he allowed what remained of her essence to flood his senses.
*Bitter and annoying, my lily-white arse... all the bloody perfumes of Arabia couldn't hold a candle to this...*
At last, he gently opened the book and began to leaf through the poems within, trying to guess which of them had been among her favourites by the amount of her scent left on the pages. A futile exercise, he knew, as so much time had passed. At least he could content himself with simply breathing in what remained of her on each page he read, and the knowledge that she may have found some comfort in them.
He was about an hour into his reading and reminiscing when he came across a folded sheet of paper tucked between the book's pages. Recognizing Willow's writing and scent immediately, he picked it up, thinking it was either scrap or one of her class notes. If it was scrap, he could just chuck it, but if it was one of her notes, she'd be happy to have it back, he was sure. Best to take a look and make sure which it was...
The outside of the paper bore out the scrap theory - there was a list of some books and other source material she had used for an essay which he knew to be complete, but there was an astrological chart for Mercury sketched out on it as well.
*Still, might as well make sure...* he thought.
As he unfolded the paper to make sure the inside likewise contained nothing of importance, the star chart made him think of how he could twit the witches about doing horoscopes for fun and profit - but any humour he felt was squelched the moment he started reading the page. After he had done so, he went over it again, slowly, hoping he had somehow managed to misunderstand the words - but he hadn't.
The list of spell ingredients by itself was chilling. When he and Dru and Darla and Angelus had roamed together, he had often helped Darla with any spells that needed casting - Angelus could never be bothered with magic, and Dru simply couldn't be trusted with it - and as a result, he had a journeyman's knowledge of the art. One or even two of the items listed might pop up in a particularly powerful (and risky) White spell, but all of them together meant something very different. Only the very worst Black magic had need of so many such potent components in a single spell, because the forces being manipulated were not only powerful, but corrupting - and extremely likely to escape the caster's control.
As impressive as Willow's own power might be, she was still new to the craft - and as history had shown, she was also unfortunately prone to make mistakes that a more experienced practitioner could avoid. And while on the subject of experienced practitioners, Tara couldn't possibly know what her lover was up to - could she? Surely she would never countenance the use of such dark magic!
Worse than the list of spell components, which only hinted at the purpose of the spell, were the first lines of the invocation written at the bottom of the page. It had obviously been translated or rewritten a few times, but the scrap that was there was enough to reveal what end result the magic was to work towards...
Osiris, Lord of the Underworld, we beseech you, hear our plea. One has passed into the Sunless Lands out of turn, her time not yet come. We beg you, o Judge of the Dead, return her to us, return to us the warrior of the people...
Spike sank back against the headboard, the paper falling into his lap. After a minute, his stunned disbelief gave way to shocked anger, which soon began to work its way to rage. He threw himself from the bed with a snarl, quickly rummaged for his clothes, and began to dress, his mind working furiously all the while.
Clearly, Willow was at least doing some serious research into bringing Buffy back - but why? What could possibly convince her to do such a thing, when she bloody well knew better? And who else knew of her plans?
*Either no one, or everyone* he suddenly realized.
Practically all of them knew how dodgy - and dangerous - resurrection spells were. If Willow had managed to convince herself that she could do it - and convince herself that there was a good reason for her to try - she wouldn't approach the others until she had an argument that could convince them as well. But why was the witch doing this in the first place?
Finished dressing, he sat down heavily on the bed, and attempted to rein in his temper enough to think clearly. He managed it to a certain extent, and consequently he remembered that there was some evidence at hand that needed a little more examination. Picking up the paper again, he sniffed it carefully, trying to determine if anyone other than Willow had handled it. And as far as he could tell, the answer was no - while the book itself carried a hint of Tara's scent as well as the redhead's, the paper didn't.
*Red. An' only Red. So she's workin' on 'er own - or at least she was...*
After another minute or so of deliberation, he knew what he had to do.
*Got to have me a little chat with Red, find out if the others are in on her little scheme or not. They can't know what they're meanin' to do... an' if they do know, I've got to suss out why they think that yanking Buffy out of bloody Heaven is all in a good day's work!*
He checked the clock impatiently. It was early afternoon, so the Summers house would be empty. Dawn was at school, and the witches wouldn't be home until later. Given their class schedule, Willow would be first to arrive today, so he could confront her privately.
*Good, if she hasn't brought the rest of 'em into it - I can get it all sorted nice, quick an' quiet that way. Bad, 'cos I've half a mind to bloody feed 'er her liver just for thinking about doin' this...*
Their confrontation would have to wait for an hour or two, but that suited his purposes just fine. There was something that needed doing before he headed for Revello Drive anyway.
Grabbing his duster, he stuffed the innocent-looking paper in one of its pockets and made his way to the tunnel entrance of the crypt.
Moving quickly through the underground passages that peppered Sunnydale, he soon reached his destination. Fortunately, the public library's entrance was well shaded by trees, making his dash from the manhole that much easier on his flammable hide. Once inside, he made his way to the desk where he presented his card (set up for him by a grateful librarian who had come close to being a vamp snack some months ago) and in turn received a wireless mouse.
He moved into the public computer area, and chose a terminal that was off in the corner, where no one could see the monitor screen. Setting the mouse down, he activated the screen, and opened the browser. A scant minute later, he was logged into Hotmail.
When Giles had let the vampire know how he could be reached, Spike had been more than a little surprised to see that an e-mail address had been included, given how much the human was known to dislike computers. Apparently, he had chosen to make at least a token concession to modernity - likely because it could facilitate communications when there was an eight hour time difference to take into account.
Swiftly, he typed a message to the Watcher, pausing only to smooth out the paper and run it through the scanner. Then he attached the scanned images to the mail, gave the whole thing a quick once-over to make sure he had left nothing out, and sent it off. Knowing how wounded the other man was, he didn't want to share this burden with Giles, but he had no choice - he'd promised. Plus, the Watcher would be able to find out exactly what spell it was - after all, there was at least a chance that he'd got it wrong, that it wasn't a resurrection spell at all.
*Yeah* he thought sourly. *Pull the other one.*
Scowling, he got up and returned the mouse at the desk, then headed for the manhole. There was quite a bit of time before Willow arrived home, and he had to unleash some of his pent-up anger.
There was bound to be something in the tunnels for him to kill.